Celestial
by JeSuisUnePomme
Summary: DenNor AU. Every 100 years the Spirits of Sun and Moon send pieces of themselves down to earth to live among the humans and protect mankind. Sindre, blessed by the Spirit of the Moon, has to choose between the needs of his family, his people, and his kingdom or the desires of his heart cursed upon him by seemingly unpresent gods and the destiny he never asked for.
1. Chapter 1

**Celestial: Chapter 1**

 **Summary:** DenNor AU. Every 100 years the Spirits of Sun and Moon send pieces of themselves down to earth to live among the humans. Their pieces are destined to search for each other and reunite to protect humankind from repeating the mistakes of their ancient past. Sindre, blessed by the Spirit of the Moon, has to choose between the needs of his family, his people, and his kingdom or the desires of his heart cursed upon him by seemingly unpresent gods and the destiny he never asked for.

 **AN:** This is based on Inverted-Typo's Celestial AU idea over on Tumblr. Dear Inverted-Typo, I kinda took your idea and ran away with it to distant lands… whoops. Here's my twist on your twist! Special thanks to Emily and Heather, the most beautiful betas in the world!

 **Note:** Nor is Sindre, Den is Magnus. Sun spirit is Male, Moon is female here. All of Den's siblings are OCs - although his sister, Marta, could be seen as Nyo!Den, if you so wish.

* * *

 _Once upon a time…_

 _There is a story that is told in these lands of the Moon coming down from the skies and living among the humans as one of their own. She was kept tied to the earth against her will, a prisoner stolen away by the evil Spirit of Darkness unleashed by careless humans, hidden from her love, Sun. For ten years Moon suffered as a human without the magic that connected her to her home in the heavens while Sun searched for her, scorching the lands as he wept for the loss of his love._

 _Eventually, the two were reunited and together they combined their powers to seal the evil away once more. Sun blessed the settlement where Moon had lived, thankful to the humans that kept her safe when he could not. The lands flourished under the love of Sun and Moon and grew to be great and their influence multiplied, spanning several kingdoms._

 _Humans, however, are fleeting creatures and their memories are short. In order to prevent history from repeating itself, Sun and Moon agreed to send pieces of themselves to live among the humans, to guide and rule the kingdoms, born with knowledge of their celestial counterparts and memory enough to keep the earth safe from the Spirit of Darkness…_

Sindre was born in the dead of the night during a full moon on the first day of winter. Snow began to fall as his birth was announced to his father. That night, it is said, the Spirit of the Moon herself came down from the heavens to kiss his brow. His skin was fair, his hair like moonbeams, his eyes filled with violet starlight. He was gentle and quiet, yet also strong and unshakable.

His parents, the rulers of the great kingdom where it is said Moon lived during the earliest memories of humans, were overjoyed with the blessing. They wept tears of happiness that their gods chose to continue to bestow divine gifts on their family and their lands.

The townspeople inside the kingdom immediately began to whisper about the search for the Moon's partner, Sun, for when one spirit appears among the humans, the other is sure to follow. And so, a family was found in a neighbouring kingdom that claimed one of their children was the incarnation of the Sun Spirit…

On Sindre's 18th year, after many months of correspondence and many more months of planning, the family was coming to meet him and, hopefully, the two would be wed as per tradition; to lead the lands in a way that was pleasing to their gods.

The family arrived to court, all sun-dark skin, bright eyes, and nervous smiles. The parents stood proudly with their children, dressed in the finest garb the fashions of the time described. It was like summer had descended into receiving halls as they were introduced to the onlooking courtiers. A hush fell upon the crowds hugging the edges of the room, creating a bubble around the family as they approached the dais that held three grand thrones. Sindre sat upon the forwardmost throne, relaxed and nonchalant, a look upon his face carefully arranged into polite disinterest. He warmed his expression to a small smile as he looked on from his throne, comfortably lounging. On his right sat his father, the king, straight and proud; at his left sat his mother, regal and warm, with her youngest son, Emil, perched on her lap. They were all decorated in blue silks and silver. A silver circlet on Sindre's brow was delicate and shining, pearls inlaid in the twirling patterns at his temples. He wore a silvery cape about his shoulders and it cascaded down one arm and his lap, pooling at the ground by his feet.

His father was unusually passive as he let Sindre take over the responsibility of leading the court proceedings, simply observing as his heir addressed the court and the guests. Anxiety bloomed in Sindre's gut. He much preferred the background work when it came to ruling. He was not a natural public speaker and felt uneasy when all eyes turned to him expectantly. He had not received from his father the ease with which he spoke to people, crowds and one-on-one, with anyone from courtiers to peasants. His father was a firm ruler, but had an even, velvety voice that was easy to trust. The people loved their king, he was fair and just, and Sindre often wondered if he would be able to fill his shoes when he finally inherited the throne. These worries stacked up alongside his concerns of the destiny he was delivered the night he was born. At least, he thought as he gazed at the family in front of him, he was not alone in that regard. There was one other person in the world that understood the pressure of being chosen by the gods to protect mankind from evil and all of the symptoms that came along with that.

Sindre did not rise to his feet, but remained sitting as he introduced himself and his own small family. Years of instruction on proper etiquette allowed him the ability to keep his tone smooth and gentle. He had always known the Sun Spirit existed in the world somewhere and he would eventually meet them. Would he recognize them for what they were right away? Life was so much simpler when destiny was merely a subject to be discussed, and not a real life event. A pit formed in his stomach when he first heard they found his Sun and it only grew as this day drew nearer. What if he didn't like them? No one ever talked about what would happen if the Sun and Moon met and had no interest in each other...

"Presenting," called a herald from somewhere deeper in the room, "the Andersen Family!" The Andersens collectively bowed and there was decorous applause from the court. Sindre tiled his head in greeting as the head of the house was introduced, followed by his wife. Their eldest daughter was gently pushed forward a step and she smiled tentatively up at Sindre.

"Presenting Miss Marta Andersen, blessed by the Spirit of the Sun." Her face was painted in gold dust, her warm, honey-colored eyes were lined in kohl and she was decorated with gold jewelry and glittering diamonds. Her silk dress looked like sunshine spun into thread, the bodice sparkling with beads and the skirts curled about her legs as she took a step forward, the fabric hissing quietly as she curtsied low, watching Sindre through her eyelashes. She was graceful as she rose back to her full height, reaching her hand out to Sindre in greeting. He rose to his feet and took a half-step forward, dropping one foot off the dais and took her hand, brushing his thumb along the back of it as he smiled at her.

"I welcome you and your family to our kingdom," he said. He made sure his eyes stayed on her face for a moment longer than necessary, before looking past her at the remaining three members of her family. On her mother's hip was a little girl, too young to stand politely on her own, and next to her, with his hands balled into her skirts, was a boy about the age of seven. Sindre smiled warmly at him before turning his attention to a young man, the eldest son. "And the rest of your family?" he asked glancing back towards Marta, releasing her hand.

"This troublemaker is my younger brother, Marcus," Marta gestured towards the boy, who was busy rubbing off the gold paint adorning his cheeks onto the folds of fabric clutched in his hands, his mother unaware. Sindre thought of his own younger brother, who hated being dressed up and paraded around just as much as Marcus seemed to. "And this is Magga," the small girl shied into her mother's neck before turning to peek at him, smiling delightedly and waving. Sindre chuckled. Her fat cheeks were also brushed with gold.

"And?" He raised an eyebrow looking again to the young man, who avoided Sindre's eye, looking beyond him at the decor and other people in the room.

In comparison to his siblings he was dressed quite plainly, like he was trying not to stand out. He had the same sun-kissed blonde hair, but his skin was much more fair and his eyes were a shocking shade of sky blue. Freckles like constellations were splashed across his face. He was not painted like his sister or younger siblings, save for the rosy flush that bloomed in his cheeks when Sindre extended his hand with the expectation of a proper greeting.

"This is Magnus, Your Grace," Marta said from behind Sindre, a wide smile evident in her voice, "my twin brother."

Those blue eyes flicked towards his parents and hesitated, stepping forward only when his father gave a slight nod and tight-lipped smile. Sindre waited patiently for him to come forward and take his hand; dropping to a knee, he brushed his lips for the briefest of moments over Sindre's knuckles. He kept his eyes downcast.

"Pleasure," Sindre purred. Magnus finally looked up to meet his gaze and was clearly unable to rein in the grin that flashed across his face. Magnus cleared his throat as he stood and schooled his expression to something more appropriate for court. Sindre was momentarily overwhelmed with a sense of warmth. He could feel his voice dying in his throat and he blinked, looking away from Magnus and gathering his composure before quickly saying, "thank you for coming so far to meet me," He turned on his heel and fully ascended the dais once more. He sat himself down on his throne, and with his elbow on the arm of his seat, touched his fingertips to his chin as he regarded his guests.

"This evening when the musicians first take up their instruments, Marta, I hope you will permit me to lead you in a turn about the dance floor, for I much desire to do so," he said smoothly, internally reluctant to follow through; he didn't care for such ostentatious events where the focus was solely on him. His mother, however, had strongly suggested that it was his responsibility to open the ball later that evening. Marta blushed delicately beneath her golden paint and ducked her head.

"Your Grace," she curtsied again, "I would very much desire that as well." The was a general sign of approval among the court, and the family was whisked away in order for regular business to carry on as usual. Courtiers took their turns approaching, bending the knee and expressing their barely contained joy that Sindre had, at last, found his Sun.

.

The grand ball, to celebrate the Sun and Moon being reunited at last, began shortly after a light dinner Sindre had served to him alone in his quarters.

Eight fully-lit crystal chandeliers, going two-by-two down the length of the room, cast small, flickering rainbows throughout the hall. Along one long length of the room were four sets of oak double doors, thrown open to the foyer beyond, where one could find swirling staircases to the balconies overlooking the grand ballroom. Courtiers enjoyed refreshments there with the proper vantage to observe, whispering behind unfurled fans about the other attendees below mingling and twirling around the floor like bumblebees in a garden. The opposite wall curved outward and was home to floor-to-ceiling windows. Heavy velvet drapes of deep blue were tied back with silver cords and would have revealed the beauty of the garden beyond, had the winter sun not set hours earlier. Doors on each end of the room were open to the outside to allow fresh air to circulate and to give guests access to the garden where they could walk along the paths lit by candles in decorative glass baubles. Liveried staff circulated amongst the guests providing carefully arranged hors d'oeuvres and flutes of champagne from ornate silver platters balanced on gloved hands.

Everything was beautiful. Sindre scowled. The room was too hot, his clothing felt itchy, and his feet were pinched. His dusky blue silk brocade doublet was cut snugly against his tall frame, accentuated the most by the air of authority he wore upon his shoulders, rather than many elaborate trimmings. Silver inserts gleamed in his sleeves, and polished silver buttons contrasted with his inky black breeches and boots. He longed to remain in the private balcony reserved only for his family; however, his mother had pushed him towards the stairs, insisting he find his Sun and dance with her as soon as possible.

"I much prefer to admire the women and their ridiculous dresses from afar, mother," he had insisted. Her disapproving frown only deeped and she fiddled with his collar in such a way that suggested she would rather be choking him with her freshly manicured hands.

"The ball cannot properly begin without its host leading his guest of honor in a dance."

" _I_ am hardly the host," Sindre whined, jerking away from her fiddling and pulling in vain at the silk about his throat. "I had no part in the planning of this evening other than signing my name along the bottom of the invitations. Besides, they can just as easily begin their dancing if I simply cue the music," he gestured over the railing across the way to a balcony that hosted a collection of musicians playing a tune to fill the air while everyone waited for their prince to make his entrance. They would begin playing songs for dancing when he and Marta would take the floor, or when otherwise instructed.

"Sindre," she said on a heavy exhale, "please don't quarrel with me on this. You have just been reunited with your Sun, this is a _joyful_ evening. Do try to pull your lips into some semblance of a smile and at least pretend to enjoy yourself. For the sake of my nerves at the very least."

He relaxed and rolled his eyes, allowing her fiddling fingers to come at him once more. She worried over the hair that fell into his eyes, escaping the black velvet ribbon that held the rest together at his nape. At last, satisfied with his appearance, she cupped his cheek and, for a moment he thought that her eyes softened somehow, as she became simply his mother. It was not often she dropped her regal facade, and never during events of any importance. She was a kind woman with a gentle face, but she took her role as queen seriously and expected her children to follow the example she set. ' _The People will always come before you_ ,' she would tell Sindre when he was young, dropping a kiss to his forehead like her words were meant to comfort him, to protect him from the nightmares he would have once he slept. They were never comforting, but it put reason to the torment he suffered being the bearer of the Moon's spirit.

"My handsome son," she said, "I am so very proud of you." The moment was brief, and soon she was schooling her expression back to stern. Sindre allowed himself to be ushered towards the door. She waved him on as he slumped down the stairs, straightening and squaring his shoulders only when he descended into the line of sight of the public. He hesitated just over the threshold of privacy and being with the guests, a moment the herald took to proclaim his arrival. "Sindre Sigurdsson, Crowned Prince, Blessed by the Spirit of the Moon!" He felt a little like he was heading for the gallows.

The skirts that bobbed and the suits that gave short bows as he passed were dizzying. Too many people had their eyes trained on him as he strode purposefully into the reception hall. He had no thought as to where to place himself and await Marta's arrival to be announced. He clasped hands with men whose faces he recognized, and names he did not bother to recall, thanking them for attending his grand affair. To the women he flashed dazzling smiles, offering bows of greeting when they giggled politely behind their hands in delight. He worked his way around the room, pausing to pluck a glass of champagne from a passing tray and tip the entire contents down his throat. He knew more than a dozen women were watching him carefully, still secretly hoping they would catch his eye and he would ask them to open the dance, despite having been formally introduced to what the court expected to be his betrothed by the end of the evening.

He looked back longingly towards the archway leading towards his family's private balcony. He caught sight of his father's back as he disappeared up the stairs, finally having pulled himself away from whatever business that kept him occupied until now. Little Emil sat atop his shoulders, hands balled into their father's hair for support; the king's crown sliding sideways on his small, platinum blonde head.

He considered searching for another flute of champagne when he heard Marta's name called, "Miss Marta Andersen, Blessed by the Spirit of the Sun, and family!" He turned his attention towards the main entry. The oversized, ornate wooden doors, stained dark, stood open to the night as guests slowly filtered in for the evening, their presence proclaimed as they handed their invitations to the herald. Sindre watched over a sea of heads as Marta curtsied to the room, the rest of her family following in similar fashion, and she descended the steps into the crowd of people mingling. Sindre took a moment to gather his wits then made his way towards the doors to greet her. He deposited his empty glass on a passing tray.

"Your Majesty?" A voice, the words barely understandable around a juvenile lisp, asked from somewhere near his elbow. He blinked and looked down, a small hand was reaching out and hesitating just shy of grasping for his sleeve.

"Marcus?" He knelt down so he was eye level with the small boy, Marta's younger brother, "what can I do for you?" The small boy had been redressed for the evening's affairs; he wore a fine white silken suit, a golden sash tied across his chest and around his middle, and there was a miniature mock sword strapped to his hip. His blonde hair seemed to be untamable, as it stood on end, but clearly looked like someone had tried to comb it down. His tanned skin was brushed in golden dust, reapplied for the evening's festivities, and his wide, brown eyes were lined in kohl. He was grinning cheekily, one of his front teeth was missing. He must have ran down the stairs into the foyer, his small body passing unnoticed between the ball gowns adorning the women in the room.

"Your Ma-," he wrinkled his nose and changed direction, "you're a prince!" he shouted excitedly and Sindre found his mood lifting a little.

"I am."

"Marta was _very_ excited," Marcus said sarcastically, "she talked an awful lot about you this afternoon. She mostly complained that doesn't know how to dance. That's okay, though, since we found someone to teach her before the ball tonight. She knows now. But, she was really worried before, since you asked so nicely and it made her blush lots."

"Marcus!" Marta's voice arrowed through the hubbub, as if to pin her brother to the marble floor.

Sindre smiled politely, carefully masking his amusement, "Of course…" He cleared his throat and turned at Marcus' wide eyed retreat to stand and greet Marta who was beelining for them both, her face flushed. He wondered after the cause, whether it be anger or embarrassment, or perhaps a mixture of both.

Marta curtsied low when she was close enough before he could decide her mood. She brushed at a red ribbon at her throat holding a pendant of the Sun Spirit and said, "please forgive my brother, Your Grace! I hope he is not bothering you," she added quickly. "I did not mean to interrupt, but he can be such an imp!"

"Not at all," Sindre offered her his arm, "we were having an… illuminating conversation. Shall we walk?" Despite her obvious discomfort, he found himself admiring the way she carried herself in the new garments tailored for her. A golden gown, reminiscent of sunshine, shone about her like a summer haze. Sparkles of gold thread and amber glass made whirling patterns like tiny suns across the fitted bodice, flowing into ruffled skirts that rustled as she walked. Sleeveless, her sun-darkened skin was dotted and lined in careful patterns of ochre red, the heavens in picture form, transforming her into a work of art. Swathes of butter-coloured hair curled round her head, with tumbling ringlets framing her reddened cheeks. Startling amber-honey eyes sparked with a fiery disposition that suggested she was angry, not embarrassed.

"Of course, Your Grace. As it pleases you," she replied smoothly, gathering her composure with the habitual response used in the circles of polite conversation. He too often used that tactic to buy time for his thoughts; however, he found himself somehow disappointed that she reined in her fire.

Sindre threw a wink over his shoulder at Marcus who laughed delightedly as he dashed away, getting lost between the skirts that swirled about the room like floating flowers. "I'm glad you found me," he said, relieved. He was no longer alone, and it showed when his shoulders seemed to loosen.

"That _illuminating_ conversation… should I be worried?" Marta peeked up at Sindre and he teased her with a quirk of his lips, but said nothing on the matter. "Damn that brother of mine. Sometimes I swear I could…" she heaved an exasperated sigh. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace, I oftentimes find him vexing."

"Ah, the joys of younger siblings," Sindre inclined his head, trying to catch her eye, and the amusement sparkling there. Of course, there was tension between him and his brother, but on a whole Sindre found himself doting on his sibling more often than not. "Of course myself and Emil have had our share of disputes, but worry not. Your brother was merely trying to..," he gestured as if to pluck the words from the air.

Marta raised her brows, stifling a smile as he struggled to find a gracious reply, "Yes, well his teasing has made a grand impression, I'm sure."

"Yes, thank you." he could feel the embarrassed flush rise in his collar. "He did speak of your recent dancing lessons. He said you were doing quite well," he offered.

"Did he, now? Surely you are being far too polite. I know I promised to join you this evening, so I'd prefer not to disappoint the Prince," she admonished him. "Or his mother…" she muttered and she shot him a pointed look.

Sindre felt his ears turn red, then his cheeks. ' _Oh dear_.' His eyes widened as he startled, wondering if she really knew his mother was the driving force behind his actions this evening. His step faltered for a fraction of a second before he composed his quickly turning thought, "Erm… well, there is that…" he caught her look - she was laughing at him! - and he felt his lips pull into a smile in response.

Marta grinned, "Oh so there is a man under that facade, eh? Good. Yes, I don't desire to be the one to trod upon toes, literal or figurative, Your Grace. My father is adamant that this," she motioned her hand between the two of them, "work. If we are 'agreeable,' as he put it." She rolled her eyes a little at this.

Sindre wondered at the casual mockery of her father, but he also knew the expectations that faced them both, placed upon them by their families, the court, and their gods. "Yes, it seems we are… what is that turn of phrase? _We are in the same boat._ " Marta chuckled and simply nodded her head in agreement.

Silence descended between them and Sindre cleared his throat. He glanced down at Marta, she was peeking up at him expectantly, a pleased flush rosy beneath her bronzed cheeks.

"My Lady Andersen," Sindre said, "would you do me the honors of opening this evening's event with me?"

"I suppose I had better," she teased him easily, "it would do no good for me to bail on you now with everyone watching." Sindre suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and delivered a pointed look and a tight-lipped smile instead. He guided them towards the rows of double doors leading to the grand ballroom. The musicians took note of their presence on the threshold of the dance floor and the music faded, the courtiers taking the cue to hush. The people in the room parted as Sindre led them to the centre of the floor. He tried to arrange his face in such a way that, he hoped, looked encouraging as he turned Marta to face him. In one hand he held hers and the other fell, gently circling around her waist, fingers barely brushing against the beadwork at the small of her back. "Ready or not, my Moon," she beamed at him and the music swelled.

His feet began to move as if on their own, the steps of dances were well worn in his memory from years of instruction. He did not have to try hard to dance well, he had inherited the same grace his mother possessed. He enjoyed dancing. It was something he could perform well and it never asked more from him than he was willing to give. Having an a partner whose company one enjoyed also helped immeasurably. Despite Sindre's nerves upon their introduction, he found that Marta was certainly more than pleasing to the eyes, but also engaging company.

Yet, Sindre was acutely aware of how stiff Marta felt, otherwise disguised behind her easy smile. Her shoulders were taut and her eyes hard as she focused on the steps he was leading her through. He decided against pursuing conversation and breaking her concentration, hoping she'd relax and trust his lead. When she wasn't glancing down at their feet, she was peering at the circle of courtiers watching them with pleased looks upon their faces. No one else had joined them in dancing, as is customary for the first dance, but she seemed to be visibly unnerved by the active audience. It wasn't until the first song ended and the second began, with guests pairing off and twirling onto the floor with them, that she finally looked him in the eye and smiled brightly, some of her stiffness leaving her. She even laughed as he spun her outwards into a turn, her skirts twisting tight around her, then unfurling like a flower in bloom.

He marveled at her elegance and the honest joy in her smile that reached the corners of her eyes. He found his own mouth turning upwards in response and he needed less and less to reach into his repertoire for charm. She was easy to be near, and this was not a feeling he experienced very often, or at all, especially when in view of the public. Was this the feeling he was told to expect when meeting his Sun? Was the flutter he felt in his chest as she beamed at the other passing couples what was meant when he was told he'd ' _just know_ ' when he was in the presence of the Sun Spirit? He couldn't be sure. He felt a kind of relaxation come over him as he realized that perhaps he would not need to have _all_ of his walls up when conversing with her. Was that enough to signify she was special?

His eyes never left her face as a second dance transitioned into a third. He had no desire to dance with anyone else this evening. He enjoyed dancing, but Marta made it _fun_. He laughed as she relaxed more, more enthusiastic in her movements, sighing dramatically and putting on a show as he twirled her again. He forgot about the itch at his throat from the fabric of his coat and how his shoes pinched his toes; the other dancers, to him, also disappeared. For a moment it didn't matter that there was no earth-shattering signal that she was his Sun, no sign hovering over her head other than a herald calling her title when she entered a room. They were not Moon and Sun, reunited to protect the earth from the evils in the shadows; she was merely a beautiful woman delighted in the dance they shared, and he just a young man who didn't have to force the smile that was threatening to split his face. He could not help but consider, in the back of his mind, that his mother must be very pleased as she looked on from the royal gallery.

Sindre could have danced the entire evening with Marta; however, he took note of her father standing a little ways away, flushed cheeks and smiling warming at them. As the song ended, Sindre held her hand out to him and he bowed deeply.

"I fear I have been monopolizing your daughter's attention," Marta allowed her hand to be transferred from Sindre's to her father's. "Forgive me, good Sir."

"Ah, Your Grace, she looked so happy dancing with you, I dared not interrupt. But, if it pleases you, and you Marta," his eyes slid from Sindre to his daughter, "I wonder if you might permit a few songs for your dear old da'."

Sindre saw the ' _yes, absolutely_!' upon her lips, but she caught herself and turned to face him, curtsying low and Sindre inclined his head with a small smile, "by all means. It has been a pleasure, Marta, thank you," he offered a short bow towards her father, "Sir."

Sindre slipped away from the party and crowds of people, escaping any further expectations.

As he stepped through the open glass doors leading to the gardens he allowed himself a small sigh of relief. The air still had some of winter's bite but was not so cold that he needed a cloak to keep him warm as he wandered; spring was drawing near. He deviated from the candlelit path and strode down a set of flagstone steps, further into the darkened garden toward his favourite spot, the quietest, least pretty, and most isolated. The grass was patchy here, and the view of the garden's pond was blocked by a row of leaning hedges. Any flowers planted in that corner, tucked away and out of sight, never seemed to take root and thrive. Yet Sindre enjoyed it. He had a simple stone bench placed there for his use, somewhere he could go to hide from palace life and be alone with his thoughts. He'd never seen another person wander so far from the rest of the garden's splendor unless it was a servant at his bidding. He was startled to see someone already sitting upon his bench, face upturned towards the night sky, seemingly oblivious to his arrival.

Sindre gaped at the unknown intruder in his private space, only remembering to shut his mouth and scowl when his presence was suddenly realized. Sky blue eyes, widened in shock, were illuminated by a lantern hung on a low branch of the tall oak tree standing sentinel over the small bench. His light-coloured hair was standing on end; Sindre might have considered it to be messy if it did not have a look that suggested the style to be deliberate.

"Sind-Your Highness!" The man leapt to his feet and just as quickly lost his balance, tumbling backwards over his previous seat. "I didn't think I'd be found out here," he called from the ground. His grinning face popped up from behind the back of the bench, like the sun peeking over the crest of a stone mountain first thing in the morning, eyes shining.

"Evidently not," Sindre arched a brow at him, only now recognizing him as Magnus, Marta's twin brother.

"I can leave if you would prefer…?" Magnus stood and brushed dirt and grass from his breeches, his voice wavering with hesitation. He was wearing a burgundy velvet doublet trimmed in thick braided cords of gold thread, the long sleeves striped by creamy, silken inserts. Pearly buttons ran down his his centre in pairs surrounded by curling gold embroidery. There was a short cape drawn tight about his shoulders and clasped with a chain at his throat, offering some refuge against the chilled climate he was likely unused to.

"It's quite alright," Sindre heard himself saying, despite thinking only a moment before that he would much rather be alone. "It seems we were both searching for the same thing here this evening." Magnus chuckled at that and settled himself comfortably back on the bench, patting the space next to him. He didn't wait for any sort of response from Sindre and simply closed his eyes, turning his face back towards the moon hanging high in the sky.

Sindre thought perhaps he should be offended by the casual way that Magnus addressed him, but brushed it aside with a quiet sigh and joined him on the bench. He suddenly found himself exhausted from his dances with Marta, his mind whirling, and needed space to untangle his thoughts. Marta at least was different than other women, he could admit, but whether that difference was merely that he enjoyed her company or if it was the Moon drawing him towards his Sun he still could not tell for certain. For how often he was promised ' _he'd just know_ ', he felt entirely lied to. He didn't find himself ' _just knowing_ ' anything about Marta. Surely there was more to the Moon and Sun being reconnected than the simple pleasures one would discover in a good friend?

"I love the sun," Sindre jumped as Magnus suddenly spoke, his voice cutting through the silence between them like a knife to butter, "but, there's something to be said about the night. I love nights like this, where you look up and the moon looks so _cozy_ , like it's wrapped up in blankets made of clouds."

"What an odd thing to say."

Magnus grunted in response, face still upturned, but his eyes were open now, wide and shining. He was smiling. Sindre watched him as he reached to pull his cape tighter around his shoulders. His hands dropped to his lap, clasped together tightly and his nose was red. Sindre wanted to ask him why he didn't return to the festivities, or at the very least retire to his rooms for the evening, if he were uncomfortable in the night air. Inside, at least, he'd be warmed by a fire and would have a window he could sit by to watch the moon. Sindre glanced upwards; the moon was not particularly lovely this evening, a waning crescent half-hidden by clouds rolling lazily across the velvet sky. Though, and he looked back to Magnus, he had to admit imagining the moon snug in blankets was a much more romantic notion to take away from a cold night.

"You have the spirit of the moon inside you," Magnus spoke again, turning to meet Sindre's gaze, "so what's your favourite thing about the sun?"

"The sunrise." He answered without hesitation. Sunrise was a new day and marked new beginnings. He enjoyed the hush of dawn and the smell of the earth when things were only just beginning to stir for the morning. It reminded him of that moment of stillness, like one holding their breath, before the orchestra began their overture.

Magnus seemed pleased with this response and smiled at him, his eyes crinkling. His smile was so honest that Sindre found himself unable to look away from it, like it was the definition of summer and it warmed him. He wasn't sure what sort of expression he was making, but Magnus continued to smile so he continued to stare at it. Magnus brought his lips together and hummed a thought, visibly pondering his words before he posed the question he was trying to form:

"Do you get the nightmares too?"

"Pardon me?" Sindre blinked.

"Nightmares. I - my sister has been plagued by terrible nightmares since she was a child. Is that a god spirit thing, or is she a special case?" Magnus' smile faded, a frown taking up residence on his face, and Sindre felt saddened.

"I get them, too."

"They are the worst on nights when it looks like there is no moon in the sky at all." Magnus reached upwards, fingers splayed, covering the moon with his hand like he was blocking it from Sindre, too.

"The new moon," he offered.

"Is that what it's called? Yeah, that. I hate those nights."

" _You_ hate them?"

"Ah… Growing up, Marta would wake screaming from the nightmares. She was always unable to shake the memories of evil and the overwhelming feeling of loss on those nights. She was often inconsolable." Sindre couldn't look away from the lip caught between Magnus' teeth as he thought about this. His own nightmares were worse during the full moon, when the memories of Moon trapped on the earth were ripe. Made small and insignificant, Moon's heavenly voice was stolen from her by the Spirit of Darkness; Moon could see Sun every day, but no matter how loud she called, her voice could not reach him. Those nights he woke up pained, his chest tight, being so close and yet unable to reach for what Moon had longed for the most...

"You know a lot about her dreams." His voice sounded strangled in his ears.

"We are close." Magnus said simply.

The two sat in comfortable silence long enough for Sindre to grow chilled. Realizing by now he'd certainly be missed at his own party, he coaxed himself to stand, bid Magnus a pleasant rest of the evening and made his way back to the warmth indoors.

((to be continued))


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** Thank you to Heather, who part wrote this chapter with me. She is the most beautiful beta-reader, who stays up until 2:30 in the morning shouting out suggestions and reading the same paragraphs over and over again. And, of course, to Emily, my other beautiful beta-reader, with her plethora of comments that are always appreciated.

* * *

 _It is said in these lands that the thunder is merely the Sun God laughing, and the lightning is him showing off for his love, the Moon._

The Andersens were a poor family by societal standards, though the lack of wealth did not leave them feeling bereft of the necessities. They held no title, but the land they lived on was theirs; a small manor, and good tilled earth. Sweat and tears watered the fields and crops, coaxing things to grow and thrive in their small kingdom of green. Gentle hands and kind hearts saw that all who worked for them were proud to serve, be it man or beast of burden. Winter was swift and full of joy, and summer was as sweet as raspberry wine.

Marta and Magnus were born twelve minutes apart on the first day of summer when the sun shone the brightest, hottest, and was the highest and longest in the sky. Marta had warm, honey-brown eyes and no hair, but her skin was sun-kissed right from infancy. Magnus was pale and had hair as white as the blazing sun in the heat of summer, his eyes blue like a pool of water in a desert oasis. In the evening of that day, when the sky was painted with rich hues of gold, orange and pink, and lilac purple, the Sun Spirit appeared with his blessing. The little cottage where they lived, their mother often recounted, had suddenly grown hot, like an oven, and filled with a light so bright she had to hide her face in her hands. It was as if the air was fire itself, hissing and spitting like wet firewood. When the coolness of evening returned, the heat dissipated as if it had never been; nothing was even so much as singed.

Their mother was soft-spoken and tender. During most evenings she would sing to her children while they prepared for sleep, then she would kiss them both on their foreheads and whisper words of affection when they were tucked into bed. They were _both_ her blessings, neither one more special to her than the other. ' _Family is the greatest treasure you will ever have_ ,' she told them time and time again, ' _cherish it, for it is worth more than all of the riches you can fathom._ ' A saying that both her children came to know well.

Their father seemed a stern man, for all the lines graven into his face from wind and weather, but when he smiled it became clear that no weather could darken his cheery soul. He had a loud, booming voice and a hearty laugh. He worked hard for his family, leaving for the fields before the sun was above the horizon and only returning home when it had dipped to kiss the earth. It was often that he returned with his hands as brown as the soil he worked in, no matter how much he washed. He was good to his children, and taught them much; about the Sun and the Moon and how together they created Life, which spread across the earth. His father spoke of responsibility, the honor of good work, and kind deeds to bird and beast and plant and instilled these things in his son and heir, Magnus. He taught Magnus to thank the Sun Spirit every morning for a new day, since the future was never guaranteed, and to thank the Moon Spirit every evening for the opportunity to rest.

Magnus and Marta were comparable to the wind: a force to be reckoned with, but often blowing in different directions. Marta grew faster than Magnus and often teased him for it. She was slightly taller, a little faster, the tiniest bit stronger. She found taunting her brother to be the finest entertainment, and Magnus' gentle spirit only encouraged her to seek new ways to torment him while they were young. Their mother would often have to pull them apart and mend their clothes, and patch scraped knees (or remove a multitude of stingers after Marta discovered a beehive and threw it at Magnus) with a reprimand to be kind to your family.

Their mother never played favourites, but often had to seek Magnus out after a particularly nasty fight. She'd find him, as mothers always do, hidden in the hayloft and would gather him up and hold him against her chest. She would let him cry into her clothing, soothing him with her hand in his hair on the back of his head. She would tell him she loved him and he was precious, just as Marta was. She explained to him that all siblings do not always get along, but having a twin was the greatest blessing he would ever receive. Marta would forever be there for him, and he there for her. There was no one that could be closer together than they. Marta should be his strongest ally, his best friend, his greatest companion. Magnus tried to protest that Marta was mean, and their mother laughed and kissed him. She said, " _You both will grow._ "

It wasn't until the birth of their younger brother Marcus, 11 years later, that Marta and Magnus began to value their bond. Suddenly no longer the centre of their parents' world, Magnus and Marta's friendship with each other grew. More often they kept each other company, bonding over their mutual dislike for the baby that kept everyone awake at night. The chores that once were no more than distractions among the childish games were now central to their rapidly changing lives; their responsibilities grew as much as they did. Magnus was required to be at his father's side in the running of the farm - tending field and flower, beast and farm hand. Marta became central in managing the household while their mother was tending to Marcus, and later to Magga. Marta learned to manage accounts while doing chores, and to attend village matters when the Village Women's Circle needed an Andersen voice.

Soon, jaunts into the village were their responsibility, to see to harvests' delivery, the purchase of farm implements, and to check in with the neighbours. Adventures in the exploration of the village life soon bonded them through bullies, dishonest merchants, horse-thieves, and brigands. Not that they had dealt with brigands, nor were they ever in much danger being in such a small town, but both the goodness and cruelty of humanity was illustrated to the twins as they matured.

Some solace was found in the Temples of Sun and Moon, where after an afternoon among their friends would see them for an hour or two in the quiet, reading the religious texts, laughing at their day's adventures, or commiserating over their troubles. The twins became fast friends, riding in the countryside, or doing the farm chores together back to back, climbing the apple trees to pick harvest. They would share a hard cider at the tavern from time to time under the innkeeper's watchful eye, or fish by the brook in the early autumn on rare afternoons their parent's dismissed them from their regular duties. Marta's fiery temper got them in as much hot water as Mangus' ability to be beguiled; likewise his level head smoothed ruffled feathers on her behalf, and her sharp tongue defended him when no one else would.

But, times changed.

...

Magnus liked the stables - it's where he felt the most home in this unfamiliar world at court. It was not often he found he was able to get his hands dirty as he did at home. Most of the groomsmen had urged him from the stalls, insisting that they would deliver him the steed of his choice already saddled, and take it away when he returned from a ride. Being related to the Sun Spirit meant he was equated to nobility, and dirty work was below his station. However, during a lull in the afternoon right after lunch, most groomsmen disappeared for their break, and Magnus could slip into the barn unnoticed.

He made friends with a roan gelding, called Snorri, that happily allowed Magnus into his stall with a cheerful nicker and bob of the head. He was soft-tempered and cheerful, eager to please. He stood still while Magnus ran his fingers through his mane and leaned in to bury his face in it, breathing deeply of the distinct horse smell that he loved so much. He could close his eyes and pretend he was back at home. Snorri would lift his feet for Magnus without protest, turning his head to watch as Magnus picked out dirt and stones from each of his hooves.

He thought of his companion back home as he worked, the old dappled gray mare, Skinfaxi, that he loved so dearly. She was old when he first saw her, tethered to the side of a ruined shed at a horse fair. Magnus, 12 years old and full of dreams of his own horse, had gone with his father to seek a new carthorse. Placid in temperament, she seemed almost dumb, or perhaps too skittish to be trained what with her deafness. Magnus' father was reluctant in her purchase, insisting Magnus spend his money on a wiser investment, but Magnus was adamant that she was perfect. Skinfaxi was a dear thing, and with the attention Magnus paid her, she soon became a well-loved member of the Andersen farmstead.

Magnus found Snorri's saddle in the tack room, hanging on the wall below a golden nameplate and brought it back into the stall. The gravel trail from the outer courtyards, winding down the hill past the village and veering west where it widened and followed the banks of a slow-running river that snaked its way through the valley was beautiful - and maybe it would let him breathe a bit, with all the stifling court pomp ruffling his practical-minded feathers.

"Magnus," his whole body cringed and he paused before slowly turning in the direction of Marta's voice. He hoisted the tack onto the stall gate, and soothed the horse he had been about to saddle with a firm pat. Marta was striding with purpose down the stable lane, fancy skirts whisking about her ankles as she picked her way through the dust and straw. Magnus thought that the green looked wonderful against her complexion, and the twining ivy leaves embroidered in gold thread on the sleeves and bodice made him think of the forests they used to ride in.

"I thought I might find you out here." Her expression was pleasant enough, but Magnus knew his sister far more than to trust the thinning of her lips and calming nature in the tone of her voice; her eyes shone with a fire he was all too familiar with. She was angry with him, or with someone, anyway.

"Hello, Marta," he greeted placidly, mind searching quickly at what he could have possibly done to irk her so early in the afternoon. He hadn't even seen her since their shared morning meal - it must be someone else, he thought.

"I was with Sindre this morning," she said, and the smile that flashed across her face, before it was schooled away, was warm and genuine, "we had a pleasant stroll arm-in-arm through the garden." She looked wistful as she let herself recall earlier events and Magnus felt a rush of affection for his sister; she was so undeniably taken with the prince it was hard not to feel gladness on her behalf. But, then her expression soured and she froze him over with a particularly fierce glare. "He said something interesting about you, you know," her tone was eerily calm, "and I have to wonder, Magnus, what were you up to this morning after breakfast?"

"What?" Magnus startled, "I've hardly done anything to catch the interest of anyone at all!" And it was true. When they had first left their little farmland for the prince's kingdom, he thought it would be a grand adventure to stay at a palace.

He daydreamed on their journey north, what it would be like to go to sleep in expensive bed sheets, to have more pillows than needed and then wake whenever one desired with the sun high in the sky. It would be nice after the bruises on one's behind from all the bouncing around in the back of a stone benched' carriage; he would have preferred to ride himself. But, after waiting on a royal summons for nearly a fortnight, sleeping in a giant feather bed had all but lost its lustre.

To be treated like a high-class citizen seemed wonderful at first, but after a while it seemed to dull when those that he would have engaged in conversation now looked down and would not meet his eyes. Servants scuttled from beneath his feet, bobbed curtsies and bowed when he approached. Work he might once have happily have had a hand in was now out reach, and when he tried, he received scandalised, sometimes horrified, looks. He wondered at that, until his father pointed out that they might think that he was criticising their work. It was frustrating. It meant he was at a loss as to what to spend his time in doing, so he usually spent it by trying to be as unobtrusive as possible when he wanted to participate.

Over the past week he had become so bored he could no longer stand it. First thing after breakfast one morning he had made his way to the stables, fully intending to help the groomsmen with their morning chores. He had never having felt so desperate to shovel shit in his life. His plans were thwarted of course, by the stable staff insisting he return to his rooms and do something more appropriate to his station with his time.

Still determined to do something useful, he'd found his way to the greenhouses behind the kitchens one afternoon. He'd managed to sink to his knees in the dirt and started ripping out weeds and tending to small plants in the herb garden when the head cook came out, yelling and waving her ladle at him. The soil beneath his fingernails was a refreshing sensation, but being chastised by the angry, plump woman who fed him breakfast each morning was not worth the relief. He fled, much like a dog with its tail between his legs, wondering how such a large woman could move so fast.

It was this morning he found himself at the kennels, and there his willingness to lend a hand was finally appreciated. Walking the palace dogs had seemed like a simple enough task but, upon reflection, perhaps the staff there had been a little too eager to hand over the fistfull of leashes.

He had barely made it to the courtyard before all the dogs suddenly stopped behaving, having realized their regular caretakers were not going to attend their easy walk through the grounds. They chose one singular moment to wrench free from Magnus' relaxed and trusting grasp. The hounds scattered, Magnus yelled, chasing after them. He nearly caught the leash flying after the nearest, who was elderly, blind in one eye, suffered a limp, and was still faster than Magnus. Their braying and his shouting filled the air as they led him on a chase across the courtyard, through a latticed archway, past the stables, 'round the fountain and sprinting towards the freedom of the gardens beyond the row of low greenhouses.

"Oh. Right," Magnus suddenly remembered and realized what it was Marta may be referring to. When he realized he would not be catching all eight hounds himself by chasing after them, he had paused to catch his breath. That's when he had glanced up towards the palace, and in one of the window was the Crowned Prince himself, looking down at Magnus with an amused expression poorly hidden behind one of his delicate hands. Sindre had his attention called away from the window by someone else in the room and he'd disappeared. Magnus wondered just how long Sindre had been watching him; he flushed then, and now again at the memory of it. He ducked into the stall with Snorri, hoping to dodge Marta's disapproval.

"He said there was a ruckus in the back courtyards, and when he happened to look out the window, he saw _you_ at the centre of it." Marta crossed her arms over her chest, having forgotten about the hems of her skirts and letting them fall around her slippered feet. "We are both very lucky he has a sense of humour under that chill exterior of his. He had the kindness to laugh as he told me this," Marta heaved a sigh, "but, for the love of the Sun and the Moon, Magnus, this isn't our home in the countryside. You can't behave like an idiot. We need to be seen as proper members of society here."

"I was bored," Magnus complained, "I _am_ bored. There's nothing to _do_."

"Go study in the library! Don't go chasing after every hound that chases after a squirrel."

Marta frowned, stepping into the stall to stand on the other side of his mount, absently scratching a greeting on the nose of the roan gelding. She sighed, her anger seeming to give way to exasperation at the situation and Magnus' clumsiness. She threw him a hopeless look, eyes full of fondness, and Magnus felt himself relax a bit. "You are an idiot, aren't you?" She looked away, and Magnus could almost feel her unease. Too often it seemed to be masked by irritation these days, or bravado.

"I know, but…" he paused, fingering the saddle blanket on the door, before tossing it easily over his mount. With a nod to Marta, he next heaved the saddle onto Snorri's back, settling it there. Marta moved to allow the stirrups to fall, her hands quick to task as his, more out of habit than anything.

"I can't help but feel this is all going to blow up in our faces. You shoulder too much of this. I wish…" he began, then trailed off, wary of their location. He hated that. He longed for their home in the countryside, when Marta would hike out to the fields to deliver him some bread and cheese and, if he was lucky, a crisp apple from their small orchard. "I miss home." At home, where life was honest and simple and there were no grand court events and charming princes. Home was where he'd work himself to exhaustion and he'd collapsed into his lumpy bed and be asleep before his head hit his flattened pillow. He and Marta would sit together in the hayloft and share a glass of their mother's cold lemonade, or talk until the moon was had risen. Home was far away from palaces and Spirits of the Moon and divine duty that was destined to rip apart their family. The Sun Spirit had not blessed their family, he had _cursed_ it.

"No!" she hissed, fingers curling into the well groomed mane, "You know we can't let anything jeopardize this chance. What would Da say?" she winced, and Magnus could relate. He hated the oily feeling of their deception, but he hated the thought of disappointing their parents even more, their lovely and patient mother and strong and good father. He had been told every day of his life that this would happen, that it was a _good_ thing, and yet his gut clenched with a longing ache to return to the life he missed, where he did not feel so bored and so _useless_. The sudden thought that he might have to stay if all this did work out was an uncomfortable one; it was like a knife twisting in his chest.

Marta sighed again, and she hid her face in the neck of the sturdy horse, breathing the warm scent. Magnus patted his mount, leaning down to cinch the girth and fasten the breast collar leads. He removed the halter, replacing it with the bridle hanging on a peg nearby nearby, scratching Snorri's forelock playfully. The gelding snorted, tossing his head, ill-amused. Magnus missed Skinfaxi.

"Of course I miss _home_ ," Marta said quietly."I miss how we used to get into so much trouble…" she took a comb from the bucket of tools hanging on the outside of the stall door. She was quiet a moment longer and Magnus let her find her thoughts. He was afraid to say the wrong thing and provoke her temper, especially when it seemed she did not really want to be angry. Instead, he reached across the gelding's back to touch her fingers still curled in the horse's mane.

"I miss _you_ too, Marta," he squeezed her hand, "but, I can see part of you likes this place more than home - the farm. You like the glamour and the attention," his eyes sparkled with gentle tease. She smiled at that and he found his lips turning up in reply.

"Yeah. I do enjoy Sindre's company, too. He's funny and gentle and so handsome," Magnus wiggled his eyebrows and Marta rolled her eyes, reaching to give him a playful smack upside his head before she continued, still smiling, "and he's easy to talk to. Like you, in some ways. But, I feel like there's a wall between us. I don't think he means to put it there, but he seems to always be very careful with what he says to me. He hides, I think. I am also worried that he hasn't said anything about a proposal…" She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. "I feel everyone was expecting for us to announce our engagement at the ball, but… he disappeared for a time after dancing with me."

Magnus blinked at that and withdrew his hand from hers to run nervously through his hair. She did not know that Sindre had found him in the garden and they had spoken (after he made a sufficient fool of himself, falling over the back of the bench). He was not sure how long they had talked, nor did he really remember how long he had stayed to think, once Sindre had taken his leave. When he finally made his own way back to the palace, the dancing had ended and whatever guests remained were milling about in groups, conversing with flutes of champagne grasped loosely in their hands, so he imagined it must have been some time.

"He had seemed to be really enjoying himself," she sighed, "I mean, I felt like we had a _connection_. His smiles were honest and beautiful but, when he returned… I don't know. Something had changed. I tried asking him about it, but he wouldn't give me a clear answer. He did dance with me again, which was lovely and he was lovely, but then he excused himself and disappeared for the remainder of the night." she sighed again, "he didn't even _kiss_ me." She pouted.

"You like him. Like, _actually_ ," Magnus grinned, watching her begin to brush Snorri's mane as she worked out her thoughts, ignoring his tease. "Who cares about what the court expects to happen on their timeline. And Ma and Da - I know they keep questioning you about when they can expect to settle into the palace life."

"Without an official proposal, we are all living in limbo."

"Give it time, you two just met." Magnus grabbed a second comb to work through Snorri's tail, and the horse gave a look of surprise that _two_ people would brush him. He shook a bit, settling to the attention happily. "Try not to let it worry you too much. Everything will work out in the end. I care too much about Sindre and you to let anything jeopardize your happiness."

Marta looked up, " _you_ care about him?" she looked puzzled a moment, a question on her lips.

"For your sake," he added hastily with a shrug. He refused to look up and meet her concerned gaze.

Magnus waited for the moment to pass and silence to settle between them before he spoken again, "I feel useless here. You have Sindre to occupy your time, Marcus has his court studies, and even Magga seems to be taken with the other courtiers' children. I've seen her playing with them and the nannies in the upper courtyards. Ma and Da have been preparing for this since we were born, I think. Ma seems so happy brushing shoulders with the rich and dazzling, and even Da seems to be enjoying the life of luxury. But me? I don't have a purpose here, Marta. I'm too old to be with the school children, I don't have anything to contribute to high society, and I'm no soldier..." he paused to click his tongue in thought, "I have nothing to occupy my time."

Marta watched him, eyes filled with apprehension as the wheels began to turn in his mind, formulating a plan he could already see her bracing for. Her brows rose curious, and somehow perturbed that perhaps this would turn out to be another of his crazy fancies.

"Perhaps Sindre needs a friend," he said slowly. All the real interaction he'd had with their family so far had been strictly with Marta, likely with the heavy expectations of romance to blossom immediately. "What if I were to get to know him as well….? I mean, as to set you up with him, right? His brother in arms in courting women - _you_. I mean, even princes and courtiers have to confide in _someone_. It's not like it would be that different from the gangs of youths gossiping on the village green," he grinned. "We would be brothers-in-law, after all. It would be the perfect opportunity for him to make friends with our family and give me something to do besides watch the sun rise and fall each day." Marta furrowed her brows as she listened to him speak, words of disapproval likely on her tongue when he interrupted her thought before she could speak it, "besides, you have all these fancy classes on how to behave like a proper lady of the court to fill your time when you're not with him, right? It's not like I'd be in the way."

"You want to spy on my future husband?" She clarified slowly.

"I want to be his friend and, coincidentally, push him into your open and waiting arms!"

"You know Ma and Da would not approve." She bit her lip. Magnus watched her eagerly, giving her time to consider his idea.

"Alright," she relented, "I suppose it can't hurt if you can manage not to make a fool of yourself. Ma and Da are eager for news of that engagement, perhaps your antics can drive him into my arms," The last traces of worry washed away from her face as she laughed at him, mumbling about hounds and lost leashes. Magnus thought of Sindre in the window, also chuckling at his unfortunate luck. She continued to giggle as she combed more vigorously, focused now on the task. "Come on, let's finish this before the stable boys wonder at what we're muttering about and come to take your ever-so-precious work from you," she smiled at him, honey eyes warm.

Magnus found himself grinning. He could not place just as to why, though he knew it was in part to the fact he felt closer to his sister again than he had felt in weeks. He knew she was feeling the stress, and was glad he could help her in it, even if only for a minute. "Of course, anything for my sister," he said with the utmost of courtly dignity he could muster.

...

Magnus' footsteps echoed off the marble tiles of the now empty ballroom, the space having been cleared of any signs of the festivities from a few nights prior. His strides were not filled with purpose, there was nowhere he needed to be, and he was able to marvel at the room's splendour free from a the cacophony of celebrating courtiers. With the floors empty of frenzied, frilled finery and swirling skirts, he could see the glittering patterns on the tiles spread across the entire ballroom. They shone with recent polish, the floor patterned in alternating tiles of dark and light, like night and day. Without the crowds, he was free to crane his neck and look upwards, to stare as he liked at the mural on the ceiling, backdrop for the crystal chandeliers.

The painting on the ceiling that spread from one end of the ballroom to the other was of the heavens. The Sun Spirit was reaching across the space towards the Moon opposite. In the middle, their hands joined around the earth, their child, Life. Magnus ceased his lazy stroll and stared at the depiction of the Moon Spirit. It was unlike any he had ever seen before. The Sun was always depicted as fiery, masculine and muscled. In this painting, he was smiling widely, almost mischievously. The Moon, in contrast, was always shown to be smaller, more delicate, both in features and in expression. This Moon, however, was lacking the qualities that would normally characterize her as female. She had the same fair hair curling into constellations and serene expression on her narrow face; she had long fingers on dainty hands, but other than that, she was lacking the distinct swell of breasts beneath her robes made of stardust. The cut of her jaw, Magnus mused, could almost be perceived as masculine.

He liked this rendition of the Sun and the Moon. They look honest, he thought, _human_ , and very much how he preferred to imagine them to be as they are, in the heavens looking down on him right now. Were they watching their human counterparts currently? He cast his eyes downwards, wary of being observed by invisible forces. Were they watching him? He shook himself and continued across the ballroom towards the gardens and stepped out into the chilly late-winter air.

The gardens were lovely, even for the season. Crocuses were pushing up through the frost that had come in the night, still blanketing everything despite the sun having risen high in the sky. Splashes of purple and yellow nestled between the grays of stones in a rock garden beyond a low row of boxwoods in a tidy hedge. Gardeners were working wearing woolen hats, tilling the earth by hand and preparing for spring. The terrace was empty and Magnus leaned against the stone railing and watched the workers go about their business, letting his mind wander.

He caught sight of his sister beyond the grand fountain, like a ray of sunshine among the garden of crisp white. Her yellow hair shone in the cold winter sunlight, coiled around her head in delicate braid, threaded with pale pink ribbons. A wine coloured bodice gave way to storm-cloud like skirts, burgundy inset panels enticing the eye to generous hips and dainty steps. A fur short cape was drawn snug about her shoulders, her arm looped through the prince's. She was smiling up at him. The prince was wearing a navy greatcoat, braids of silver and polished buttons along its front, broad sleeves and tall black cuffs giving him an air of authority and confidence. Magnus noted too, to his chagrin, the Prince seemed to wear the courtly gray breeches and thigh high boots far better than he did.

He dropped his chin into his hand as he watched them stroll. Sindre pointed out various plants and Marta did a very pretty job of looking interested - he knew her better than to believe she enjoyed discussing various foliage; gardening had always been more his interest than hers. She laughed at something he said, her cheeks flushing and her free hand coming to hide her grinning mouth. Sindre also looked pleased and he inclined his head, turning just so and Magnus could see his own lips twist upwards in a tentative smile.

He was striking, it was hard to miss why Marta was so drawn to him. It was like playing hide and seek with the moon on a stormy wind-filled night - mysterious and compelling all in the same moment, and coupled with his handsome angular face, he was the portrait of aristocratic allure.

He startled, his heart leaping into his throat, when Sindre suddenly looked up across the garden and met Magnus' eyes. The prince slowed his steps, but did not turn away, even as Marta continued to chat happily at him. The smile slid from his face, but he did not look angry, rather more like he was processing very carefully. Magnus bit down on his lip, torn between the feeling he ought to retreat and leave the prince and his sister alone to their afternoon, or journey down the flagstone steps and greet the pair properly. He hesitated, standing straighter, and Sindre continued to hold his gaze. He felt a tug and his feet began to move on their own, the desire to be nearer to them winning out.

A broad hand clasped his shoulder firmly after he made no more than a half-step towards the stairs; Sindre looked away, breaking the spell.

"They are a lovely couple," Magnus' father stood beside him, his voice was laden with meaning beyond his words. Magnus looked to him, his normally jovial demeanor seemed pinched, his mouth pressed into a thin line as he watched his daughter and the prince with a meaningful expression. "Don't you think?"

"Yes," Magnus quickly agreed, his thoughts awhirl. Sindre's gaze seemed too compelling. "They seem agreeable. Although," he heard himself continue, "I wonder if it is honest, on the prince's part, rather than fabricated for duty's sake." The hand on his shoulder tightened, fingers normally gentle now digging into him. "Marta certainly has taken a shine to His Grace, and the prince seems pleasant enough, but I'm not sure the same attraction-" he swallowed and wondered how to continue his thought, if he should at all. "They have not known each other for very long," he concluded and the hand loosened. He chanced a glance to his father, who was watching him through narrowed eyes. "I was thinking of going for a ride," Magnus said, turning away from the gardens, ending his observation of his sister and the prince. His father's brows rose at the abruptness, and frowned.

"That certainly seems to be one of your _few_ hobbies these days," the words could have been kind, but the tone was biting and his father's expression was still soured.

"There is not much else for me to do, Da." Magnus heaved an exasperated sigh, "There is nothing for me to _do_ ," he corrected, "I am not made for these fancy court proceedings like Marta. She's seems to have taken to her part with great alacrity. But what of me? Where do I fit in, aside from being a friendly companion for my future brother-in-law? I do not enjoy the courtly machinations, in that I am not needed!"

His father cut him off curtly, "You are here because you are a part of this family. I did not work so hard my entire life to see this opportunity wasted - here our name can mean something. My children and grandchildren will not have to suffer the indecency of a life of labour, toiling, slaves to the soil and season. You will not ruin this chance for Marta," he said, deep voice intense. Magnus could not tell if he had come to speak these thoughts, or if his outburst had caused the comment.

"I do not have to be here for that to come to fruition," he retorted, equally as firm. It wasn't often he butted heads with his father, but something… he could still feel Sindre's gaze on him in his mind's eye. He had to - this was too important. What was too important? He thrust the thought aside, growing frustrated with the constant interruption of his own internal debate.

"You would throw this opportunity away? Magnus," his father's tone adopted a pleading edge, " _here_ you can be more than a farmer." The look in his eyes was desperate to will his explanations into understanding, Magnus knew, but it didn't help. Magnus only felt as it he was being judged.

"I don't want to be more than a farmer. I've grown up with my hands deep in tilled earth and with the sun on my face - you taught me that life! There is honour in it," his voice rose. He was dimly aware it had carried farther than he had intended.

"You would abandon your family, then," he was angry now. There was disdain, bitterness that seemed to cling to his father's words. Derision. Magnus felt his temper flare! Hypocrite! How dare he accuse!

"Abandon it? I have lived my life serving it!" he shouted now, his words tasted bitter on his tongue. "Here, I am clearly under foot. I am no more than an ornament, with the same amount of use as a lame carthorse!" The frustration of the past weeks seemed to bubble in his chest, seeking outlet. He did not deny it.

"Then make yourself useful, boy! There are things you can do to occupy your time other than watching your sister and her beau. She does not need a chaperone and you could spend your time elsewhere!" His Father's grip became tighter, and Magnus pushed it away roughly.

"No! I _hate_ it here. I want to go home - it's not fair!" he spat the last word venomously.

"Is your sense of injustice so much greater than the love for your family?" The reply was hurt, bitter. He grimaced, trying to control himself. Magnus didn't care anymore. Let the garden watch!

"No, but -"

"Magnus, you will make yourself useful. There are alliances to tend no different than the weeds you love. Your Ma is beside herself with worries and could use your counsel. Build bridges boy." he gestured 'round to the ballroom's tall glass windows.

"I am a _boy_ no longer, Father!" he growled eyes flaring with temper.

"Then act a man!" It was hard as granite.

Magnus looked hurt, then his brows drew down again in anger, "I am a man better than petty ambition!" he snarled, and he shoved past his father's shoulder roughly.

...

Magnus bent low over Snorri, urging him faster. The sun was setting and the trail was disappearing into shadow. He'd ridden this very path enough times he was confident he could avoid the worst of the dips in the road. Snorri responded to the slightest tug on rein easily, trusting his rider, though he otherwise might have balked at the looming darkness. The palace shrank into the distance behind them, no more than a twinkling set of lights like stars on the horizon of a velvet purple sky. A curve in the road took Magnus out of sight and he drove Snorri onwards, his hooves thundering in his ears. The wind from speed and weather rushed past his face, causing his eyes to sting. He should have been chilled, but his skin was still alight with anger and frustration.

The air smelled heavy, charged with an incoming storm. Thunder rolled in the distance, tall clouds billowing into the sky like smoky towers, illuminated by the last glow of light as the sun disappeared. Even should the sky have been clear and cold, the moon's face would have been absent. He reined Snorri in, both of them breathing hard. He felt like the sky itself and Magnus shouted a wordless curse at the gale. Snorri shied, ears flicking between his rider and the thunder now growing closer. A sudden flash arced across the sky and cracked so near that Magnus felt the hair on the back of his neck lift in response. Snorri screamed and fled in desperate panic, veering off the well worn trails and into the shelter of the forest. Magnus thought as he grasped at something, anything to keep him from plunging from the horse's back, "Why did I ride out like this!? In this weather?! I'm such a fool! Gods help me! Sindre!"

Magnus barely kept his saddle, reins torn from his grip. Branches whipped painfully against the arm raised to protect his face, his other hand tangled desperately in the mane at the withers. He called to Snorri, urging him to slow, but his words were lost on the wind as his steed continued to crash through the underbrush, frothing now in terror.

Snorri stumbled, pitching forward and dropping to his knees. Magnus felt himself lift from the saddle and slide up Snorri's neck, and without two hands gripping the mane, he was easily thrown over like he hadn't been holding on at all. He was airborne for only a second, but it felt like minutes as he watched the shadows of the ground pass beneath him. His back and shoulders connected with something solid, the air leaving his lungs in a whoosh. He crumpled to the ground and panicked, unable to draw breath. The last thing Magnus heard was the sound of the wind-whipped leaves on bowing trees, like crashing ocean waves.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** In which we make Sindre and Marta human...

This chapter is very much brought to you by Heather (Jindaokol on Tumblr) and also only half of what was originally planned. We made the decision to post the first half, as the second half is taking so much longer to write. So here we have a portion of chapter three, with the rest to hopefully follow shortly...

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" _It is believed in these lands that the Sun and Moon bring prosperity and balance all aspects of Life, their Legacy. When burgeoning bud and breath find Light under the heavens, so Life will grow."_

Sindre turned as the last words echoed across the garden. Marta's hand on his arm curled around his bicep with enough strength to start to hurt. Was it desperate? He could not tell, but when he glanced at her, her jaw was clenched, her grip white knuckled. He could feel her anxiousness and disappointment that the quiet morning had been disturbed, harsh words spoken by her family and overheard by ears she would likely wish had been deaf to it. Should he respond to the argument or act as it had not happened?

Marta thumbed his sleeve gently, "let us away," she said before he could decide. He searched her face; her eyebrows were drawn and her lips pursed. She finally met his gaze and her expression immediately softened into a small smile. She said, "shall we go breakfast then?" A warm feeling in his chest stirred him to place his hand upon hers. Her grip on him loosened at his touch, thumb running along his sleeve once more. He wondered at the gesture, but did not comment.

Sindre nodded, "yes," he said, a frown curling his lips down. He turned them to one of the adjoining gardens where his mother had suggested (schemed) to have them break fast without too many prying eyes or courtly gathering. He took his time rolling over the question he burned to have an answer to before he parted his lips to speak it, "I hate to ask," he cautioned, "do Magnus and Lord Andersen quarrel like that often?" Though, once it was spoken, he wished he could have called back the question. It was far too forward; it wasn't any of his business. Why on earth did he ask!? A small voice answered, barely a whisper in his thoughts, ' _Because you care… and you're curious_.'

"Not often," Marta said slowly, and Sindre blew a small sigh of relief that she did not seem affronted by his rudeness. She led them to the gap in the hedges and he could see her search for words. She shook her head, "No, not often. Magnus rarely loses his temper." She grimaced, the pleasant repartee they had been enjoying spiraling into awkward pauses. "I… that is, I am far more likely to show temper than he is. He's not without one, but he is a gentle spirit. Perhaps it is only that he is bored. It did grate on him, at home, being without purpose. I imagine it is much the same for him here and he does not know where to find it."

He made an affirmative noise. "Bored? To be honest, I don't know if I empathize with him. I have never had the struggle to find something to do at court, it has always been decided for me." He shrugged, trying to sympathize. "I did rile against the fact that it was decided for me, however. I have found myself often at odds with my mother for something or another to do with my governance," he caught Marta's thoughtful expression. He didn't quite know what to make of that, or if it was was even in regards to him.

Sindre's heart went out to her, to Magnus - courtly life was beyond their ken. He quickened his step, for her sake, and when they rounded into another garden he still found his gaze drawn back to the terrace, wondering.

Marta latched on to the topic, a little more at ease now that the garden terrace was beyond their hearing. "Such as?" she asked, brows rising curiously.

Sindre pulled his eyes away and focused,"oh, uhm..." he stuttered. His boot caught on a loose stone and he missed his step, lurching forward suddenly. "Well, uh," he managed to stay upright with Marta's firm grasp helping him balance.

"Well, I suppose... my mother and I… well, I used to hate how pushy she got - _gets_ \- about things." He stifled a small chuckle, "I did have a fiercely independent streak." He fought to control the embarrassment of his clumsiness while Marta clearly tried to hide a small smile. She would be amused by his unpreparedness, he thought.

"Did?" she quirked a skeptical brow. "I find it hard to believe that streak simply vanished. Gentleman though you seem to be, I imagine there is more to the 'Sindre the Taciturn' than meets the eye." She glanced him up and down imperiously, her nervousness was fading and her humor was returning. Somehow, he felt his heart lighten at that and he found himself smiling, ignoring the pink he felt rising in his cheeks.

They stepped into a gazebo, shapely curleques of polished wood, painted white and gilded in gold shone in the midst of the new shoots budding green about their shoes. White liveried servants moved efficiently to lay breakfast of sugared citrus fruit and delicate morsels in a colourful arrangement. He sniffed and found that he was hungrier than he had thought, and hoped there would more forthcoming. He politely held Marta's chair, waving away the servants.

Sindre gestured wryly as he sat, "You think so? But what if I am so dour and a cold-eyed Prince, hmm?" he teased. There was warmth in his gaze, belying his words. He continued their previous conversation, "I suppose more than anything, I hated being forced into things. Whenever my Mother or the councillors or whomever would make an ultimatum I would usually be the first to question the decision, or outright refuse to be removed from the decision making process."

"Do you often find yourself so at odds with your family, then?" she repeated his earlier question. "Is it an oddity to acquiesce to your family's wishes?" Her question seemed innocent enough, but he wished he had studied her face rather than the plate so deliciously decorated. He wondered if she was trying to steer the conversation to her own ends, as so many of the ladies of the court seemed to do.

Sindre paused briefly to choose his words, politely pouring tea for them both. "Yes and no. I love my family, I enjoying doting on them, especially my little brother I suppose, but I prefer to make my own decisions. Especially when it comes to my life when so much else is decided for me. You must take back the little things like what jackets to wear, or in the buying of gifts, or polishing my own boots- " he stopped abruptly. Sindre suddenly felt a strange sense of fear come over him that he was saying too much about his quiet, personal thoughts, that he was revealing too much about himself too quickly.

"What of your counselors, do you seek and abide by their counsel? I should think that their opinions on what is best for you would be fairly sound, considering the prosperity of the Kingdom. It seems rather childish to deny them, when the proof is in the pudding, as it were. Family is incredibly important, is it not?" Marta commented casually, and Sindre wondered if she had noted his reticence, or if she had truly heard him.

"Of course it is," he was taken aback by her words, straightening his posture, the pleasure of a quiet breakfast lost to the conversation. He frowned. Was she trying to provoke his temper? What had happened to that feeling of 'rightness' from the night of the ball? True, he had been playing the socialite prince, even down to the gaiety, but when he had danced with Marta… his heart had soared. Surely, he shouldn't feel this upset if she was the Sun - right? He did not have time to recover his thoughts as Marta continued.

"Then shouldn't one be willing to do anything to see it prosper?" She spoke with nonchalance, spearing a small pastry onto her fork and looking carefully down at her plate, refusing to look at him. She therefore did not see his mouth drop open before he reined his composure back in and steel himself for a verbal tussle.

"Is this you or your Lord Andersen speaking? If I recall, he was saying something similar earlier," he shifted in his seat, eyes sparking with pointed anger at the thinly veiled accusation.

"Do you think me incapable of making my own decisions? Do not believe me to be as easily led as all that," she stabbed at her meal with enough vigor that her fork scraped against the plate. She glared at Sindre across the table, her expression one of chilled politeness, offended. He did not want to acknowledge the hurt lying behind the cold stare.

"It seems that so far you have not. What am I to think when the Sun Spirit seems tamed by a vainglorious man vying for power - even if that man is her own father?" he did not try to hide his disdain, or rein his sharp tongue.

"How _dare_ you!" Marta placed her fork down on the table with enough force to rattle the serving platters, "I do what I must! I do not give myself to selfish whims based in a naivete that does not reach beyond the walls of a stifled court. Who are you to say that I am weak willed when it is my will that brought us here? It is my passion!" her temper provoked. "Regardless of the insult you imply of my father," her voice was ice.

"How am I to believe that that when all I can see are the strings you are tugged by?" Sindre placed his own cutlery down, making a point to be much more gentle about it, even though he felt like he was beginning to quake with frustration, his appetite now completely vanished.

"Do not think I can't see yours! You claim you are free of them, but they haven't girded you with iron, Prince," she sneered, "they have bound in chains of lace finer than that which I wear and you're too blind to see it!" she needled, intent on finding a target that might make the steel clad prince bleed. "You speak of claiming jackets and boots, and yet those things are still only fetters-"

"I see plenty!" he interrupted Marta. "I see a little girl who doesn't think beyond the moment of a bloody engagement! I will one day have to keep this Kingdom prosperous and need a Sun Spirit, _my_ Sun spirit, who will help me, who will be my equal! I will not have anything less! That is why I refuse to agree _blindly_. My Kingdom comes first, not tradition of absent gods nor the whims of a stifled court and meddlesome mother, and especially not by a romantic woman who does not even have the background to begin to understand the nuances of my life!" He seethed.

Her eyes flashed, "You spoilt little upstart! How dare you say that! You think I do not know what happens to my life should I agree to marry you? All I have ever known disappears! My brother! My home in the hills where I could be free! Free from petty politics on which rest the fate of all who live in this realm. Do not think me ignorant of that fact, _Prince!_ She spat the name like an epithet.

"I have seen first hand the results of your government! Who collects the tax monies to see to your coffers? My folk. Who see the results of bandits or thieves when your soldiers are too late? Who deals with the families who aren't prosperous because of that? _My_ _family_. We are the ones to pick up the pieces and rebuild, or donate time and sweat and blood, while you _sit_ here on a pretty chair looking at numbers on a page! Do not tell me I am ignorant of the realm; at least I _live_ in it!" she was relentlessly ruthless in her reproach.

They stood nose to nose over the table, silverware clattering off the table. It seemed as if they might be about to share a kiss had their expressions had been more ardent.

Sindre didn't know what to say. He looked away, as did Marta, both poised to depart in their tempers. Sindre hesitated and heard quietly the breath of laughter. He whirled round to absorb the taunt, to find her still turned, temper fled and tired shoulders slumped under the weight of expectation. It was as if he stared into a mirror. He bit back the insult on his tongue.

"Well, at least I know my Prince has a will of iron," she said, somehow bitter, he thought. Was it an apology? No. It was an observation, but he felt it was significant to her in some way.

He shook his head, anger trickling away, "and I know my Lady has a spine of steel." He adjusted his cuffs and fingered the silver buttons, trying to compose himself.

"Flatterer," she tried weakly. She smoothed her skirts and Sindre watched the careful motions of a woman rebuilding her shattered composure, much like himself. Immediately he felt a twinge of guilt, or was it fear that she might pull away because of his coldness? He spoke quickly, hoping to bridge the growing chasm between them.

"Sometimes. You are far more than what I said. I know there is more to you than your family, you are… I wish I knew. For all the time we have spent together I wish I knew you. You are unafraid of me, no one dares speak to me thusly, even my family. Please, forgive my harsh words. I would see them replaced more by truth than the doubts of a troubled heart."

"And I you. You hide in in the polish of expectation, I would see you smile for heart's joy rather than pretense for sake of propriety," she said, turning to face him. "I apologize, Sindre." Her voice caressed his name as if not to break it, or the thread of trust was once again building between them. Her eyes were red-rimmed as if she held back tears.

Sindre paused and looked away once more unsure of what to say. The courtly circles and social norms failed him in that, and she knew it. He struggled for words and the rustle of her skirts was barely registered as she broached his personal space.

A gentle touch brought him to his senses, Marta's amber eyes looking at him. He blinked, ' _No, looking into me…_ ' he thought. It was as if an endless sea of harvest fields was alight in her eyes. Golden summer heat burned behind her focus, beckoning with the promise of warmth, freedom… Her hand was warm on his cheek, and somehow he had never felt so vulnerable.

He closed his eyes, and made a choice. "You are incredible," he whispered.

Sindre let out the breath he was holding and Marta seemed to take strength from that. How odd. He continued, "I know you think I live separated from my people. I understand why when so much of the court is stifled and stagnant. Let me show the city, the beating heart of Caeleste. It's..."

Her hands moved to clasp his and he felt her earnestness, "...important to you," Marta finished, and Sindre's lips twitched.

"Yes, I'd like that dearly," Marta said with the utmost sincerity. "Will you meet me at the gate at quarter to the hour?" she asked, "I daresay these skirts aren't meant for riding." With her temper abated, Sindre saw her own vulnerability exposed. The bravado was gone.

Sindre nodded, eager to move on from this egregious social misstep, for both their sakes. "I'll meet you there." He watched burgundy skirts whirl as Marta turned towards the castle, her trying not to show the tentatively hopeful smile.

He felt it mirrored on his own lips. He thought that he might have shared too much, indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** So, we are still working on this! Life and inspiration are fickle things... Like Sindre!

This story has transformed into less of a Fanfic and more of a completely original beast loosely based on a fandom AU...

A warning for this chapter: there is non-graphic, post-sex, lazy conversation at the end of this chapter. If that weirds you out, be warned. No parts are described or shown, but there you have it.

Enjoy!

XO Apple and Jin

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 _It is believed in these lands that the Sun and Moon bring prosperity and balance to all aspects of Life, their Legacy. When burgeoning bud and breath find Light under the heavens, so Life will grow. And when Life has reached its acme, the doom bringer, Darkness, shall return to restore the cycle of Death._

The market place outside the city walls hummed, the milling of people bustling about their business like a swarm of bees in a flowering meadow. The warm spring breeze carried the scents of tar and oil from the river where barges and shallow drafted ships unloaded their cargoes on the wharves. Bales of wool and furs, giant sacks of grain, carefully stacked barrels that sloshed with the promise of a heady nectar stood upon the docks, waiting for the Dockmaster to make their inspection before the goods were collected by the porters and shopkeepers. A fisherman called their morning's catch from the boardwalks, the planks shimmering with a rainbow of scales from years of being swept and washed and somehow left unchanged by the effort.

Wooden wheels creaked over the hard packed gravel streets while drivers whips and calls cracked over the dusty patter of feet. Oxen and horses plodded along, unmoved by the clamour around them, ears flicking back and forth and grunting occasionally in their toil. Over it all rang the shouts and calls of vendors and thronging shoppers in their daily routines. Though Spring Fest was a fortnight away, already folk seemed to be putting up sprigs of greenery or hanging ribbons in festive arrangements on door frames or the headstalls of their beasts.

Despite the near festive air, Marta felt herself both pensive and apprehensive as she trotted beside the road, footfalls of her dappled gray thudding in the grass. When she had left Sindre after breakfast, she had hoped an afternoon with him alone would be just the thing to bring them closer together.

Of course, however, the court somehow managed to hear about the Prince going for an afternoon ride and all the festoonery of colourful clothes and bedecked horses ruined the clean spring morning even further. Nearly a dozen lords and ladies vied for Sindre's attention. Marta slowed her mount to a walk, denying the sigh that wanted out as she gazed down that inviting road.

Her gelding, Odin, was a world class animal, polished till he shone like marble, and held such regal attention that it seemed a shame to waste him on a trot around the streets instead hunting deer or other such sport. She wished to run, gallop away on the winding ribbon that sped across the hills to the valley where spring would be greener than here in the city. She wanted to test her mount, to run. To run, and run, and run until the world would never find her again. She wished that Magnus could see that she knew how he felt - and wished he could see… it didn't matter. Her visage firmed into resolve, then faltered at the scope of what was to be accomplished and the consequences of success. She hadn't the first clue as to how to woo a prince, let alone one so seemingly aloof.

Marta looked to the woman riding beside her, easily keeping pace as a distinguished rider herself. Lady Holly had been invaluable in her introduction in the inner circles and in navigating the turbulent waters of her courtly education. Several years older and a well-established member of the court, Lady Holly had been one of the first Marta had taken a liking to, and one of the first she felt she could call a friend.

Perhaps it was her candid nature, or tendency to poo-poo the stuffy atmosphere of pretension that surrounded the royal family. Or maybe it was simply that Lady Holly had seemed to understand her task better than she herself did. The muted browns of Lady Holly's attire made Marta's vibrant greens and thread-of-gold oak leaves across her bodice seem as vibrant as a spring leaf, and despite the frockery of the other courtiers, none could pull off that colour as well as she did. Marta was glad for the subtle encouragement from her friend.

"You seem thoughtful," Lady Holly commented, the warmth in her voice tinged with curiosity. Her auburn curls framed a heart shaped face and pert mouth turned up at the corners. "You seem out of sorts this morning, are you alright?" She did not look at Marta but the road, her concerned voice pitched to be heard only between them.

Marta almost grimaced, "Yes, I suppose I am. To be honest, I had hoped the jaunt this morning wouldn't be so… crowded," she said more politely than she had wanted to. She bit her lip, a whisper of doubt threading through her rapidly assembling plan. "He had said he had wanted to show me Caeleste, but I doubt this was what he had in mind," she gestured discreetly towards the group following behind them. "Nor I," Marta pursed her lips.

Lady Holly's brows rose, interest piqued. "Well now," she said, "what does this thoughtful expression have to do with our Prince, I wonder?" She shot Marta a sultry look, brow quirking askance. "He is one to dissemble, true. A pity, I always thought he could stand to be more forthright. Not that you'll have troubling educating him in that," Lady Holly smirked.

"Hmm," Marta agreed, looking over her shoulder at Sindre. She still had her doubts.

Sindre sat poised on his bay mare, his navy great coat and silver buttons looking as polished as ever. He replied in his usual genteel fashion to his entourage, laughing and joking with the same sort of aloofness she had come to see was his armour. Marta thought if it wasn't for the fact she had seen his marble features skewed into fury earlier, she would have believed he had had an uneventful morning. Still, there seemed a less chilly sort of energy around him since, as if he had made some choice. Was it to give her a chance, maybe? She hoped it was so, for she had no grand scheme yet to win him over.

She wondered if perhaps some of his words had been cathartic in nature for him, too. She had not seen him so uninhibited before. In part, that frightened her, though at the time she'd dare not show it. Since they had quarreled, he had gazed at her wonderingly, often. She took it for a good sign. And of course, everyone else had noticed.

"Lady Holly, would it be presumptuous to call upon you for a favour?" Marta asked, hopeful. "I could use your help, I think...I've had a thought this morning, and I'd like to..well try it out," she turned back to Holly, who shifted in her saddle as if preparing for an adventure. Marta thought it might be, if what she wanted would work. "It would involve a bit of scandal," she bit her lips coyly, "I feel as though I need to shake things up. It may even ruin my reputation, though, so it would be fair if you would rather not endanger yours by association," she added with a gesture of understanding.

Lady Holly shot her a sly smile, "Yes, well, the court is good at poking into others' business, especially the Prince's," she commented. "I for one want to know what that wicked gleam in your eye is all about. It is unlike you not to be in that throng distinguishing yourself as their better purely by virtue," she waved a dismissive hand at the entourage. "And so my answer is yes, I will help. If only to see that lot flounder," she rolled her eyes towards the crowd of courtiers grouped around Sindre, decorated in flattery and fake smiles, and grinned. "And also because I love gossip. So what is your plan?" Marta was learning to read the subtle excitement in the slightly sarcastic delivery.

Marta paused, then spoke quickly before she could talk herself out of it, "I need to speak to Sindre, alone, before we get much further. I'd like to whisk him away before their very eyes and leave no doubt in their minds that it is my company he is leaving them for." She raised her brows, "Could you perhaps entertain them with some fancy to keep them off our tail while we… disappear?" she waved at the rolling hills dotted with groves of trees, looping trails, and the clouds of dust rising from the market lanes.

Lady Holly laughed, a musical sound, "Oh, please, dear! This is why I even deigned to come along!" she teased. "I have no qualms with you getting that boy on his back, if I do say so myself. He needs a good lay. Sun and Moon both know he's too stiff in all the wrong ways," she said flippantly and shot Marta another wicked smile.

Marta flushed and gazed back down the road. "Yes well, I'd call it a favour if you could… keep the masses busy," she finished, almost embarrassed. Marta did not like Lady Holly thinking of her in such a lewd manner true, but the story would undoubtedly be exaggerated tenfold by the time it reached any ears at the castle; however, if intricate and potentially fictitious tales of indecency was payment for an honest rapport with Sindre, she would pay it.

"And what if they discover you? I daresay finding scattered undergarments in the woods would not deter anyone in this court from sneaking a peek," she laughed. Lady Holly glanced back and the Prince and his hangers-on thoughtfully. "In fact, it should have the exact opposite effect."

Marta gave in to the mental image and grinned, "Oh don't worry, poorly concealed hosiery all they're going to get!" she sassed back. Marta had no intentions other than actual talking, but having the court think they were intimate would, she hoped, play into her favour. "Of course, there will be no intrigue if the Prince cannot be disengaged from his entourage."

Lady Holly tossed her auburn curls, "Challenge accepted, dear! But, remember, _I_ shall be the first one to know _everything!_ " she shot Marta a knowing look and reined her horse to join the others. Laughter erupted and the group absorbed the woman with audible gasps of shock and delight.

Marta grinned as she heard the courtly welcome of the buxom lady, curious as to the gossip she evidently brought along with her. Marta knew Lady Holly never shared with her half as much of what she knew, and somehow that let Marta esteem her all the more for it. She waited and soon heard Sindre trot up beside her.

He said with a sigh, "Please tell me this is some scheme to divert our guests," and shot her a long suffering look.

Marta merely looked at him, slightly surprised to see such a candid expression, "Well, the thought did cross my mind," she drawled. When he sighed again she relented, "I do have a plan, but it will require your trust," she said seriously, "And maybe a slight disregard for the rules…" she hedged, making a small gesture and smirked.

"I will entertain almost any plot," Sindre replied, unimpressed, "Lord Sjovard is desperately trying to persuade me to hunt with him this afternoon, and one does not refuse him easily. Oh," he paused upon hearing her seriousness, his blue eyes searching her amber, "You're serious," he added softly.

Marta caught his gaze and for a moment she thought she saw the luminescent glow of a wild summer moon, clear and blue, like the playful, silver moonshine of rippling water. As they rounded the bend in the road, she looked over her shoulder to find the entourage well out of sight, still distracted by Lady Holly's gossip.

"Well, Sjovard's going to get one hell of hunt! Follow me!" she said with a whoop of laughter as she put her heels to her horse, shooting him a grin as wild as thunder over the plains. Marta only sensed the stunned expression before she heard hoof beats pounding after her.

Marta found herself laughing as the ribbon of road stretched before her! "Come on, Sindre!" she called, and her mount felt her eagerness to run. Tossing his head, Odin tugged at the rein and Marta let him fly! The wind rushed past and the world fell away. Sindre, not to be outdone, surged ahead to gallop beside her on the road's shoulder.

For the first time, Marta saw him grinning like a fool, practically laughing! Sindre shot her a devilish grin and she felt the unspoken challenge. The market was only a blur as they rounded the next corner, shouts of dismay and anger following them as they thundered past crowd and vendor stall alike.

Veering from the roadside Marta slowed, weaving through trees, across a creek, and into a shady glade where she dismounted, smiling wide.

Sindre followed suit, and then he spoke first, breathless, "That was a damned idea!" he said trying to catch his breath, smirking. He stood by his horse, breathing hard also. "You know I've always wanted to run away from obligations like that, but never quite dared," he said with a touch of admiration in his voice.

Marta stroked Odin's neck, then tied his reins to a bush. "Yes well, I think I've just destroyed a large part of my well-cultivated reputation," she deadpanned. "Come on, let's ruin it further, shall we?" With a wink she gathered her hair, windblown and disheveled around her shoulders, and presented her back to Sindre, "My buttons if you please," she said quickly. Marta tried to contain the furious blush, but still felt the pink rising in her cheeks. She wished to not think of what more she may want to happen, so she attempted not to think at all.

"Uhhhh," Sindre stammered, caught completely off guard. He cleared his throat, "Certainly, my lady," he said. He tied the reins of his bay to a low branch and tried to surreptitiously wipe his hands on his trousers, not quite knowing what was happening.

Marta nearly turned to stare at his blushing visage. "Well, hurry up, we don't have much time before they all gallop in here to find us. Scandal flies faster than Magnus when the dinner bell rings, and we must be well away before that happens!" her fingers clutched her skirts

Sindre's fingers shook as he undid the button at the nape of her neck and fumbled as they followed the line of pearls down her back. "No, I suppose we don't," he said, his voice sounding thick and distant. Marta nearly bit her lip amusedly at the uncertain tone of his voice. He tried, "What - exactly are - is there? Plan?" he stopped trying to speak.

With her buttons undone, she strode back to Odin, fingers flying over the buckles on the saddle bags, "You, out of the great coat, trousers too!" She tossed him a carefully tied bundle, "To be honest, this was going to be a gift for my brother, but…" she trailed off, before going round to the other saddle bag.

Sindre caught the bundle and stared at it stupidly. "Umm?" He unrolled it to find a fine linen shirt and fine, brown cotton trousers that had been stylishly reinforced with leather and embroidered along the woolen waistcoat the colour of cinnamon did not seem especially striking at first glance, but as Sindre's fingers lingered on the woven patterns, Marta knew he was beginning to see its quality.

"Oh, don't look so surprised! It's not hard to ask about your shoe size, let alone the cut of your shirt. All it takes is a friendly word to the castle Seamstress to find that out! Hurry up!" her head poked out from behind her horse. "Besides, if you go 'round the washing courts, you will find there is a well of information about any and all of the palace bachelors. Bard the Stable Master is the best thing to come out of the stables since Hansen the Handsome, apparently. He never leaves a Lady wanting, they say, though I'm skeptical. And one is never to be alone with Edric Cousland, he'll charm a lady right out of her skirts in a trice," she said matter of factly. Unsure of how to secret away a clean shirt from the Prince's rooms, it had been a happy discovery that her brother and Sindre were of similar proportions, which made the idea of tailoring this adventure far more plausible.

She nearly laughed at Sindre's stunned expression as he stared openly at her bare shoulders. She shot him a look to hurry up, and he cleared his throat. "Yes, right," he shrugged off his coat and shook out the shirt in his hands. Bright blue thread traced complex patterns at the collar and cuffs in the snowy fabric, "Is this your work?" he asked as if the question had surprised him. He shook his head to break his train of thought, "Am I correct in assuming that this is for matters of disguise?" he said, muffled, as he pulled the garment on.

Marta smiled at the breadth of his muscular back as he caught on to her intentions, "well yes, unless you really did want to get up to something lewd, which would be fun I suppose, but it would be a little rushed," she teased him. She slipped out her skirts, tossing the dress across Odin's back while she tugged another out of the packs.

"I suppose it would," he stuttered, and then quickly changed the subject, "So what is the plan, then? Aside from turning ourselves into fugitives from the prying eyes of the court?" He sighed, "And our families' condemnation?" he tightened his belt over the new trousers.

"I had hoped you might tell me, Prince show-you-the-heart-of-Caeleste," Marta taunted gently. "I didn't think we'd have such an entourage…" She slid her her arms through the sleeves of her own garment.

"Neither did I. I should have expected it though, so I apologize." He paused for a moment then, "it's your reputation that will take the brunt of this," he said, an expression of realization making his brow crinkled. "And did you truly plan for this… eventuality?" he asked.

Marta waved off his concern, "Nevermind that, I knew what I was getting myself into before I whisked you away, and I'm sure you'll make it up to me somehow. Speaking of, remind me to thank Lady Holly later. I imagine she's leading everyone on quite a goose chase - provided Lord Sjovard doesn't derail her." She tightened the lacings on her corset and tied them deftly. She took the green dress, folded it neatly, and stuffed it in the pack and fastened the buckle closed. "And yes, I did… well sort of?" she mumbled.

Sindre raised his brows at the mumbled 'yes', but made no further comment, unsure of what to make of it. "I doubt that Lady Holly will have much trouble," Sindre said instead, "Sjovard isn't much of a capable hunter - to be honest, he'll probably be the first to back her up if she sounds enough like she knows what she's talking about," his teeth flashed as he buttoned the waistcoat smartly. "He loves to feel important too much," he shook his head.

Marta absently hoped that her clothing choices were acceptable to him, knowing that Sindre was accustomed to finer wear. She stepped from behind Odin, "Well, what do you think?" she asked, as she twirled in riding skirts the colour of steely grey ocean, cinnamon thread tracing delicate patterns on the hems. Her cream coloured shirt was laced by a dark brown corset with brass fittings, and the pale orange damask shawl that draped her shoulders shimmered with a coppery warmth.

"You look lovely," Sindre complimented, smiling at the colour choice. "Do you happen to have cuff links? Or shall I take the ones from my coat?" he asked, holding his cuffs delicately. He looked to her, "or perhaps there is more secreted away in those packs?" he raised his brows at the seemingly endless supply of clothing so expertly packed into such tidy bundles, as well as the careful replacement of his former wardrobe into the satchels.

Marta fastened the last buckle and sidled up to broach his space, her hands running over the snowy linen of his shirt, "Oh no dear Sindre, a working man, such as the merchant's son you are, should wear them like this..." She took his palm in hers and turned it over gently, marveling at its smoothness. Marta noted that he did not pull away, though he seemed to be standing stiff as a post - Marta suddenly found herself agreeing with Lady Holly in her opinion of the Prince.

Marta skilfully turned his cuffs even so as she rolled them deftly up his arms, it showed her needlework. She felt his tension, then suddenly it relaxed, and Sindre's arms seemed to enfold her closer as she finished. "Show off those fencer's forearms, why don't you?" she teased. "Where to first?" she changed the subject, pushing away slightly, turning them to the adventure at hand.

Sindre gave her a wry, questioning look and then nodded. "Thanks," he said, tugging at his sleeves. Marta wondered if he liked that, or if he was just humoring her. He did cut a dashing figure, she thought. She bit her lip as he tugged his outfit once more, still every inch a Prince in different clothing - and it wouldn't fool anyone if they looked too closely, but it might give them the pretense needed to vanish from searchers, or, she hoped, give Sindre a chance to see a snippet of her life too.

"Let's double back first and hide our trail on the road - no one will find two horses among dozens already," Sindre said, grinning. "Then we might start at the east end if we assume the others will think we've gone west toward the centre of the market. There's a shop dockside…" he continued. He stood at her saddle, waiting for her hand.

Marta grinned as they mounted, listening to the sudden burst of enthusiasm in his explanations and plans. She, for once, decided that this was not the time to take charge and to let him speak much more freely than he ever had in the two months they had been in each other's social circles. Marta reined up beside him as he mounted his horse, hoping beyond hope that this was going to go well - _'And get my father to stop meddling with both Magnus and I,'_ she thought, a dark cloud passing in front of her eyes. She shook her head and smiled as they trotted from the glade. She wondered if their pursuers would enjoy finding her knickers and Sindre's greatcoat she had flung into the hazel thicket.

.

The warm breeze that blew up the catwalk near the river bank with scents of muddy sewage, fish, and seaweed were drowned in the herbaceous aroma of the local fishwives' food stalls. The sun had begun to dip into its afternoon swoon, hot, behind the haze now growing near the mountains.

Magnus drew a deep breath of the cacophony of scents that assaulted his nose, and smiled when his belly decided it would be tempted by the whitefish pies at the nearest vendor. When had he last been to a market like this? It felt like years, though he knew only a few months had passed since he and Marta had left their home and afternoons in a familiar market square. He refused to think of his Father and their morning words. Magnus was still furious with him.

He left a tawny woman at the stall counting the change from his coin, cupping his hands carefully around the piping hot pastry and licking his burned fingers free of potatoes and greasy white gravy. Magnus grinned as he walked down the lane, the simple pleasure of eating food that hadn't gone tepid by the time it reached the ornate dining rooms were somehow more delicious, he thought.

Magnus stared down the road, a whisper of a breeze stirring his pale blonde hair, a subtle pang of longing echoing hollowly in his chest. He wished he could go home. But, then Marta would be alone to face a fate handed to their family by the gods on her own. The weight of a fast-approaching reality twisted around his already tangled thoughts, leaving him more confused than ever about _that_ situation. The market goers thronged around him and Magnus glowered bitterly - at home, there would have been calls of friends or friendly shop owners. Magnus shook his head; he was moping and he knew it.

Determined to cure his sour mood he made a decision. His father was right about one thing, he had been neglecting his mother and younger siblings in the last three months since their arrival to court. Magga and Markus wouldn't be allowed to be without a chaperone in a place like this, and Magnus felt the glimmer of playful curiosity uncurl, banishing his melancholy. What would a precocious, seven-year-old rascal like Markus desire of a place like this? For Magga, a doll with shiny buttons for eyes? And perhaps a token for his mother who had, up until this point, waded through societal upheaval armed with nothing but grace - not even a new handkerchief! Imagination sprinting ahead of him down the lanes, Magnus hefted his coin purse, liking the weight that clinked there.

Magnus looked around once more, realizing the details his self-imposed anger and bitterness had refused him; the sprigs of greenery of the coming Spring Fest, the smiles, and jovial calls of people prospering. Apprentice lads darted through the lanes making purchases for their masters, errand boys no bigger than Markus ran notes underfoot for pennies, while matrons and serving folk chattered and gossiped at the street corners - and Magnus grinned at the small reminders of home. He aspired to see the market through the gracious manner like his sister, the uncomplicated way she seemed to see the good in all things. The clangour of hammers on hot metal led Magnus down one of the streets where he thought to purchase a steel blade for Markus. Nothing too large or fancy, but a serviceable knife for a little boy who would want to imitate his elders. He stood outside one of the blacksmith stalls, chatting with the apprentice managing the wares.

Magnus stopped mid sentence.

It was like a bell had rung clear across the square. There it was that voice again. His feet moved of their own accord, and he paused at the corner of the blacksmith's stall to peer around a stack of saddle blankets. Sindre stood a few lanes over - and Magnus marveled. The clean cut lines of a snowy linen shirt and cinnamon waistcoat did not disguise the regal poise of the Prince. The blonde woman on his arm popped a morsel of something into the Prince's mouth and Magnus found himself outrageously envious that it was she, and not he, who had persuaded a delighted laugh from Sindre's lips. Magnus felt his pleasant afternoon was spoiled and his fists clenched as he began to see a newfound affection bloom. Sindre was laughing! With Marta! Part of him rejoiced that his twin was growing an honest rapport, for Magnus had never seen Sindre laugh as sincerely since the night of the ball, three months ago.

He watched them across the road, unable to take his eyes off them as they browsed the vendor's stalls as he too had been doing moments before. They talked, heads bent together, pointing at wares and laughing at small jokes they shared. Curious and cautious, he followed the couple, the apprentice he had previously been speaking with now forgotten, annoyed at this gawking farmer's son.

Sindre was dressed in clothing that only Marta could have chosen for him; the patterns of needlework on the cuffs of his shirt was unmistakably hers. There was a deft touch to her work, the way leaves and vines blended smoothly into geometric designs; it was a style that he could recognize anywhere. Marta too had dressed to compliment Sindre's attire and left no doubt to casual onlookers that they were a pair.

Marta's arm was looped through Sindre's, whilst parcels and gifts were tucked under his other arm. Their pace was meandering like they had no appointments to keep, other than one to enjoy each other's company, unbothered by a trailing entourage. He wondered absently if they were going to have a picnic this afternoon - it was a lovely day for it, even with clouds rolling in on the distant horizon.

Magnus pretended to browse a selection of belt buckles and cufflinks, as his sister and the Prince leaned over a table of fine wooden crafts. Intricate toys, mirror-polished bowls, utensils, and lacquered some things gleamed like masterworks. Marta was pointing, explaining in general terms the time it would take to complete artistry like this, her face alight with enthusiasm. Sindre's face held a similar expression of awe, though he was looking only at her. When they turned away, Magnus saw Sindre lean close to Marta's ear eliciting a coy blush and teasing remark.

Interrupted in their musings by an eager busker looking to make a quick coin for his juggling talents, Sindre hooked his arm around Marta's waist, pulling her away. Marta giggled, allowing herself to be lead further down the street, dogged by the antics of the local clown - whose capers only received fond exasperated sighs from the other vendors and a cheery grin from the Prince.

Magnus strained to hear their conversation.

"- So, of course, this reminds me of the time Lady Grey had sent a troupe to my hometown - the Ten Troubadours, though there were never ten of them. I went every night to be dazzled by their entertainment, regardless of whether or not I was allowed, to be quite honest. They even had a fire swallower, can you imagine?"

"No!" Sindre gasped, feigning shock, his grin sarcastic and posh. "And you sneaking out? Why am I not surprised?" he laughed.

"Mock me if you will, but I remember it to be very exciting!"

"Last I saw a performance in earnest it ended with a stage fire and horse stuck in Lady Holly's rooms," Sindre deadpanned, Marta's burst of laughter carried over the crowds.

"No!" she said, aghast, and leaned on Sindre for the whole story.

"I am glad that Lady Grey has kept her patronage to The Ten Troubadours. She has always been a supporter of the theatrical arts. Should we invite her to court, perhaps?" Sindre asked, "I mean, I'm sure a repeat performance would certainly give Lady Holly plenty more gossip…"

"Could we? I would love to see them again, even if the magic may be different now than to a 10-year-old - and I must see the look on Holly's face… you must… story…beca- " Marta's voice faded as they moved away. She glowed, a halo of exuberant warmth seemed to infuse the air around her like she was truly the Sun she claimed to be. And Sindre, Magnus thought, looked like he had descended a marbled staircase from the skies themselves.

Did he look like a Spirit of the Sun as well? He had the same golden hair as Marta and sun-bronzed skin. His eyes were blue, though, while Marta's were the most lovely shade of sunlight streaming through amber. He felt quite plain in comparison to her; she had adapted to the life they found themselves in at the palace with an ease that made him almost believe she was comfortable with it. Perhaps she was, he thought, and another seed of envy rooted in his belly. He did not want to give into his bitterness and miss out on the beauty surrounding him, but he was not able to tame his curiosity. He wove his way through the throngs of people, following Sindre and Marta's wandering trail.

The couple had paused at another stall, Sindre this time commenting on the particular vintage of wine, made from fruits soon coming into season here. Marta commented, asked questions, interrupted only to be offered a small sample from the shop-owner. They shared the small goblet between them, smiling, thanking the shopkeep, and the clink of coin saw them turn to carry on their journey with a bottle of summer sweetness.

Magnus saw plainly a decision flit across Sindre's face, the eagerness, confusion, and happiness as he leaned to press his lips - he tore his eyes away. He did not want to see. Anger boiled suddenly, furious and hot that someone, even his own sister - No, he refused to feel; it would tear him apart. He heard Marta's breathless, exhilarated admonition, and could imagine too easily her drawing closer and running her hands across his forearms…

Magnus strode away to find his horse, unable to run, unable linger. He turned his back on the market and the allure of a dark and exciting moonlit night named Sindre.

.

The afternoon had gone by in such an unexpected fashion, Sindre thought. He lay in the grass, sun baked stalks crinkling against his bare skin, sun dappled shade fluttering across his vision. The distant hush of waves blended with the wind in the tree above them, the cooling air pebbling their naked skin as they lounged; a far more relaxing end to the whirlwind of an afternoon in the market. Marta sprawled lazily beside him, twining her legs with his, unabashed by their intimacy. Her golden hair, once in delicate braids, tumbled loose across one shoulder. He absently stroked the fine threads and pulled free a remnant of their tumble through the hayfield. She traced complex patterns on his belly with a gentle finger, the weight of her palm more real to him in that moment than any of the words or promises she might have spoken.

He appreciated the silence that had fallen between them. It was comfortable. Their interlude in the wood after they had picnicked had not been planned, of that he was sure - Marta had honestly seemed surprised by his boldness. He grinned to think of her astonished, if still pleased, expression. But their passion had left a gentle assurance that Sindre could not deny.

"You know, I have been humbled today," Sindre said, quietly.

"Hmm?" Marta murmured, her eyes still closed.

"I had anticipated being the expert on Caeleste and its people, but you have humbled me today in that. You seemed to know them better as a stranger than I ever have as a local, Prince notwithstanding," he said wryly. He had been naive to think that he could show Marta a simple afternoon in a market he did not frequent often enough.

"That's not entirely true. You had answers to many of my questions," Marta shifted to lean on her elbow. "You have a deeper knowledge than I of the inner workings of the Trader's Concourse or the infrastructure of the docks. You even knew what year the Seven Leaves Inn burned - the most popular inn, I'm told," she said.

"But that is my point, You see the people, not the place, and I am awed," he said sincerely. The leaves in tree's branches over their head waved and fluttered in the breeze that was picking up into a stronger wind, the late afternoon light blinking through their applause. Sindre wiggled his toes.

Marta blinked, "People are people, wherever you go, I suppose," she trailed off. "Thank you, Sindre," she said quietly, thoughtful.

Sindre heard her sincerity, "I had wanted to show you myself - not the Moon spirit, or the Prince - but me. It was my intent to show _you_ what makes me tick and yet…" he paused to collect the thoughts he would have hidden and dared to share them.

"In the space of minutes, ever since we left the palace, you have led me by the hand and made decision after decision about everything with never a backward glance - no don't give me that look - let me finish," he said gently, as Marta's brows rose in question. But he was thankful she did as he asked. "You lead so effortlessly as if you were born to it. When we quarreled this morning I was so afraid that your deep loyalty to your family was something instilled in you by a father bent on gathering power, whatever his purposes may have been. Now, I see a woman with a deep understanding of compassion, kindness, strength, even passion. I apologize that I did not see it sooner."

Marta lay back down leaning on his chest, arms pulling Sindre close, "How can you see without observation? You wrap yourself in seeming mysteries to confound the court in implications and schemes when really all you want is honesty to my mind," Marta's thumb quiver as it brushed his cheek.

Sindre felt Marta's cheeky grin, "You are a decisive man when you choose to be - evidenced earlier by your actions. If I were to understand a small part of you Sindre, it would be that you are indeed a Prince. I threw the name at you earlier, all the connotations of a sneering, self-absorbed, controlling prat, when in fact I have found you to be conscientious, fair-minded, and patient. If that is _just_ you, then I like him, Moon-spirit and all," she said, summer hot kisses burning on his chest with every word.

The sky's burn seemed bright against the thunderous clouds rising over the mountains, and _his_ Sun Spirit, the companion he was always meant to discover, lay loosely entwined in his embrace. He regretted that it took him so long to notice all of these things about her.

The breath caught in Sindre's throat as Marta planted ticklish kisses on his ribs; while Sindre was watching Marta, he couldn't help but think back to the morning and Magnus' argument with their father - where had he passed the hours of his day? Sindre wished his to have ended as arduously. A thought suddenly popped into his head and he asked, "You are the Sun Spirit." Marta shifted to look up at him, her chin resting dangerously low on his abdomen, "What is your favourite thing about the moon?"

Her eyebrows drew together and she hummed, leaving her ministrations to look over the patchwork of villas and farms, and the glittering waters of the Darcian Sea spread out in front of them at the base of their hill like a carefully crafted quilt. Marta shivered, sitting up, and began looking for her shirt.

"I can't say I've ever really thought about it before," she said softly, distracted by her task of gathering her discarded clothing. Sindre watched, still lounging lazily, admiring her curves and how the last of the sun's light seemed to change the colour of her hair, every second looking a little bit different than the last. The air was cooling rapidly and the clouds in the distance were now making their journey across the sky towards them. In the back of his mind, he knew they should be getting back to the palace before the weather turned sour or before their afternoon escapade caught up with them with more invidious consequences. However, he could not bring himself to get up and ready to leave just yet.

Unperturbed by her pensive silence, he asked instead, "What would you change or do with our Kingdom if you were queen?"

"You'd seriously ask me that question now?" Marta asked, a wry smile flitting across her lips. She slipped her shirt over her head and drew on her skirts.

"Yes," he said invitingly, sitting up to watch slip on her corset.

Surprised, but pleased, Marta came to kneel before him, drawing him to sit up and placed the laces in his fumbling hands. He tried to figure out how the confounding laces fit together properly. If he was doing anything improperly, she made no comment. Instead, she continued, "Well, first I think a treaty of goodwill with our international neighbours should take precedent. The war with Darcia only ended 15 years ago and we could use an official sanction of peace as a reminder to keep it that way. I've heard their new King is more inclined to peaceful relations, which is good news. I love to see a regulated schooling system implemented for all children across the country - most families do that on their own, but if we tried I'm sure we could do something. Magnus and I often had conversations about that actu-"

Her corset cinched, though likely not tight enough for her liking, he interrupted her again, "Will you marry me?" Sindre did not know how he found the daring, but he did not retract the question, though his pulse was thundering.

Marta smirked at his efforts and then blinked, confused for a second as the question registered. A blush rose in her cheeks as she leaned to take Sindre's lips in fierce kiss. Her fingers ran along his jawline, then curled into his hair. Marta murmured a throaty sound of pleasure, "Yes," was all she said as she stood to collect their horses and left Sindre in the grass, panting.

Sindre rubbed his face, fingers touching his lips where she had bitten him in her ardour, laughing to himself, as confused about her and her passions, as ever. What was he going to tell his mother?


	5. Chapter 5

**AN:** The story will go on! And, with the return of Magnus, no less!

If I have not yet already mentioned, then it will be worth it to say: this story is no longer a fanfiction. Other than the characters being loosely based off of Hetalia, the similarities really end there, and you will find the the cast have their own life to them.

I hope you will continue to enjoy the story!

XO Apple

* * *

 _When the people of these lands look up to the heavens, they peer into the ever-reborn souls of Life. Prophecy is born from the wisdom of the silent stars._

Snow fell onto the fine-grained leather glove, crunching as the fingers clenched the sign in their fist. The brief snowfall amidst the thunder did not surprise the Dark Spirit. The omens had already described the dimming of the Sun Spirit's illumination and the obliviousness of the Moon's attention. The courses of the stars glittered like a silvery thread, lighting a path to their heavenly counterparts, though the storm that crept up from the horizon crawled over them and hid their message.

"Not that it matters," the spirit scoffed to the empty road. These modern incarnations forgot to look up and decipher the declaration so clearly spelled out in the sky. The Astrarium tongue was dead. Bitterness was a foul perfume that clung to their thoughts in a thick cloud; Darkness knew the ignorance of the Sun and Moon only benefited their purposes. Yet, it had become a lonely existence ever since their shackles had begun to weaken.

Wind furled their cloak into billows as they mounted their steed. The sky erupted with light and thunder boomed overhead, merely the overture to coming rain. They booted their eerily calm steed to walk, hooves falling silently like they were walking on plush carpet rather than gravel. Darkness had not forgotten, for their memory reached longer than shadows in twilight could stretch. They remembered every moment their skin was burned by Sun and Moon, captive once to the whims of their power, held prisoner in what was once Darkness' dominion. Darkness remembered what it was to rule. The distant city lights shone bright in the gloom, their reflected light burning in furious glowing eyes.

.

The velvet purple darkness pressed against the window panes, the humid afternoon having given way to a rumbling sky. Lightning wove the windblown trees into black lace against the swirling heavens, the branches near the castle windows tapping to the relentless rhythm of the spring storm, strange for the time of year.

Heavy chintz drapes were drawn against the drafts, the warmth of the fire in the tall, ornate grate warmed his back like the embrace of lover's arms. Sindre's lips quirked at the thought of his new fiancee.

The candles on his desk burned brightly, banishing the shadows to the corners of the gilded cornice ceiling. The Prince sat bent over his writing desk, shirtsleeves rolled back on his arms, the sky-blue stitching marred now by earth and grass from his afternoon abroad. He dotted the last letters of the phrase and gently sanded the paper so it could dry. He tried not to think of his escapade with Marta while he penned thank-you notes to the courtiers who had attended his mother's luncheon last week. He doubted they would appreciate his inner thoughts accidentally spilled in inkblots into the missives.

He felt his lips turn up and heat rushed to his… face. He set down his pen and uncurled his fingers, breathing a sigh as he leaned back in his seat. He stared at the steady candle flame, his thoughts that had been blown about in the whirlwind that was the Sun Spirit, settling into understanding.

Marta was an exceptional woman. Though she had not known anyone in the market today, her presence brought smiles to faces and willing hands to work. He ran his hands through his hair and sighed again.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say that you are beginning to grow fond of this girl," came the Queen's sarcastic murmur from her seat beside the fire. Cozied in the armchair, Yrsa placidly turned her embroidery hoop to check the back of it.

"I suppose you could say that," Sindre teased back. "I thought you would be delighted, after all the finagling you have done to see us be a couple," he said.

"Perhaps I have nudged you here and there," she paused, "But come now, did you really need me to do anything at all? She is your Sun Spirit. Tell me about her," she prompted. She turned the embroidery hoop again and began counting the stitches, the subtle whisper of thread pulled through the fabric was a familiar and soothing sound.

Sindre bit his lip and grinned, "She's not at all what I had anticipated. At first, I thought she'd be an ignorant of court life, more like a peasant and less refined," he shrugged as if sheepish to admit it. "She surprised me," he said, "she's delightful."

Yrsa snorted, but did not interrupt further. Sindre rolled his eyes, but continued.

"When we talked this afternoon, we connected intellectually, which is more than I had hoped for in my future partner. She did not give me only the polite drivel that parties afford you. Her ideas and grasp of politics is far more than I thought. She gets it, Mother, how bone-wearying it is to see your ideas bungled by the delegation to people without your vision." Sindre tried to impress the nature of the revelation this was to him.

"Oh? Does she? Or was she just humouring you?" Yrsa asked pointedly. She frowned at the last few stitches, now crooked. She placed the hoop on her lap.

"I asked myself the same thing, but there's something about her that I can't help but trust. She didn't back down when faced with debate. We even had a shouting match this morning," Yrsa raised an eyebrow and frowned, Sindre waved his hands as if to wave away her concerns, "there were no tears or blubbering or grovelling. She argued her points clearly and concisely, all of them very well thought out..." he trailed off, eyes shining with a small glimmer of pride.

He had never met a woman like that, many of the other ladies at court were demure and backed down before a fight could take place. Marta challenged him. Sindre found he quite liked that.

"A shouting match? Well, she does live up to her reputation as a spitfire then," Yrsa said dryly. "I've spent time with her mother Lady Andersen, and the stories I am told! But, do continue, I can see those wheels of yours turning," she prompted him.

Sindre chuckled, "A spitfire is a precise way to describe her. I cannot call her perfect, but had you seen her this afternoon! She was grueling over the haggling, leaving the vendors cheerful. She caught three pickpockets and yet somehow managed to get them to show us the best places to find brambleberry pies," Sindre did not add that he and Marta had dared thieve two extras for the silver they paid, much to the admiration of the boys they had thwarted. Sindre did not quite know how he felt about the theft, except that the smiles and 'ohs' on the lads faces had been worth the potential blowback and Marta's assurances that any vendor worth their salt would have built a theft or two into their cost of business. It was just an expected part of the market culture.

Sindre picked up his pen again, "I've proposed to her this afternoon," Sindre announced quietly. "Even had I not been born the Moon and she my Sun, and the circumstances of her coming here different, I think I would have picked her, Mother." A shiver ran up his spine. He could not tell if it was from the draft off the window.

Yrsa blinked. "You jest!" she said in disbelief. She stared at his illumined figure poised over the desk. "You're quite serious aren't you? Well!" she huffed both startled and pleased. A smile crinkled in the corners of her ice-blue eyes. "Here I was concerned you hadn't made up your mind!"

Sindre smiled, "She did accept, and we shall have to announce it formally, of course. Spring Fest is soon, which is an auspicious time by the Celestial calendar, according to the priests," he snorted.

"And what a way to break it to your Mother!" Yrsa chided, slightly nonplussed. "You're certain of the woman, Sindre? Have you spoken with Lord and Lady Andersen yet?" her brows rose. "Protocol in this should be heeded." She pulled the last green threads and snipped their ends with her snips.

Sindre grimaced, "No, I have not. But as I recall, protocol mattered little to Great Grandmother," he said pointedly. "Surely a royal can use his privilege once in awhile," he said. He stood and tucked his chair into his desk, putting aside his task.

His mother sighed, "Well, yes I suppose it didn't. Grandmother often spoke of the deep love she held for your great grandfather, often only explained as divine intervention. You know it was not even a year after my grandmother left this life to join the Moon's Council in the sky that Grandfather fell ill? He was lost without his moon, his nights no longer had her gentle guidance, and he suffered her loss greatly." Yrsa sighed again.

"You believe that such romance truly exists?" Sindre asked, unconvinced by the notion. He had felt exhilarated dancing with and spending the day with Marta, reveling in her intelligence and passion, and patience - surprisingly enough, but never had he felt that magnetic pull since… he could not place it. He stood at the hearth, hands folded comfortably in the small of his back as he studied the flames.

Yrsa looked thoughtful before she answered, "It does… for some. From what you describe of your fiance, it seems you know of it, do you not?"

Sindre smiled and shrugged, "I think she would make you proud, if she were succeed you as queen, Mother," he said sincerely.

Yrsa's brows rose," Is that so? High praise coming from you." She paused and set aside her needlework. "I will share this with you then," she added. She unwound a long, narrow chain from her neck and drew a locket that had been hidden in her bosom. She smiled fondly as she held the locket in the palm of her hand, thumb brushing over the delicate designs on the front.

"Your great grandfather left this in my care as a girl. He said it had been passed down through three incarnations of Sun and Moon, a token of both protection and affection. Sun to wear the Moon so they are blessed with pleasant dreams, Moon the Sun as so to feel their warmth, always," she separated the two halves of the seemingly whole locket, and held them in her hands. "And together made whole, as so life may flourish and banish Darkness," her deft fingers slipped the pieces back together, and twirled the locket on it's chain to depict the story of Sun, Moon, and Darkness in eternal struggle.

Sindre turned from his place at the hearth and came to kneel at her chair.

Yrsa took Sindre's hand and pressed the intricate filigree into his palm, "Now it is your time to have these, and to give your Sun their half. May your love be as powerful as your ancestors'. You're favoured by them, I can feel it, Sindre," her voice pleaded, and she paused before shaking her head, deciding against saying anything more.

Sindre had so many questions about his great grandparents and their relationship. He knew history - the tales of their rule; the wars and reconciliations, their personal additions to the religious texts and the fables that arose during their rule. Yet still he wished to know some of the personal stories. He wanted to ask how it felt to them to meet their soulmate.

Sindre fingered the pendant, studying at the delicate goldwork, he opened his mouth to speak, but Yrsa gathered her needlework and stood. "Speak with Lord Andersen and announce your engagement before the week is out. The kingdom needs to see its heir to the throne in a secure marriage. Then, we can plan the engagement celebrations for Spring Fest," she said.

Sindre knew it was the Queen speaking now, not just his mother and she turned to go. He nodded, "Very well, Mother. I will."

Yrsa smiled, "Good lad," she said as she walked to the parlour door.

Sindre returned to the hearth and heard the door click closed. He thumbed the pendant in his palm. Anxiety bloomed in his belly as he stared at the golden face of the Sun, though he could not place why. Perhaps he was simply tired? It was the right decision, fate destined them for each other, but his heart seemed to stutter in his chest unpleasantly while thinking on it.

He placed the locket upon the mantel.

A knock came on the door and the valet entered to announce a guest, he was shoved aside by a blazing furious Marta Andersen. "Sindre! Please, I must speak with you," she stopped abruptly at his startled look. "Sorry," she said awkwardly.

Sindre blinked, stunned. Recovering quickly his lips twitching into a smile at Marta's candor, "Thank you, Rolf, that will be all," he said, nodding to the valet's dubious look. He crossed the room to gather Marta in his arms as Rolf closed the door. "Well I did say you were always welcome to call upon me, though I didn't expect it to be quite so soo-"

"It's Magnus. He's not been seen since mid-morning and I fear he's gone and done something stupid," Marta interrupted, her riding skirts swishing as she met him on the rug, where she clung to his forearms. "I've looked everywhere I can think of, and asked nearly everyone he may have even remotely spoken with - including Father," she huffed.

Sindre's brows rose, "Are you sure? The palace is quite large. Perhaps he's in the library or with the kennel masters. I'm sure he's fine," Sindre said lightly, though the anxiety in his belly squirmed. He watched as Marta twisted her hands and wondered why she was so upset. Surely an afternoon or evening away from the palace would be a nice change for someone in the family who didn't want to be here?

"Please Sindre," Marta said witheringly, "he didn't come to dinner and he would have if he were in the palace. The only time I have known him to miss dinner is when he was ill!" Sindre sensed there was something more to her worry, but he let it pass.

"Perhaps he is just at one of the local inns or taverns, there are many good ones close to the palace. He could have just lost track of time?" Sindre suggested, he let Marta go as she turned to the hearth, only to cross her arms under her breasts and chew her lip.

"Maybe. Though if so, he would have either left a note or sent one," she said, rubbing her arms. "On any other night I might have agreed with you, but something feels off about this, Sindre. I've asked the stable master and his horse has been gone all day and none of the household staff have seen him."

Sindre looked skeptical as he moved to stand next to her. "Honestly, he's probably enjoying a night out on the town. We saw this afternoon how many corners one could find a good time-"

"Sindre," Marta ground out, "I appreciate that you are trying to soothe me, but believe me when I tell you that Magnus _is not here_." Sindre was taken aback by the venom in her tone. She paced restlessly to the window, back, and back again. Her face went from anger, to worry, and then to something Sindre could not quite define. Maybe regret, as she chewed her lip again, though Sindre thought she didn't realise she was doing so.

She stared out the crack in the drapes to the bitter night, "I worry he may have tried to ride home. You heard his spat with Father this morning… He gets hasty when things like that rile him, and with this storm - if he's in one of his moods, he won't have even noticed it, or worse, ignored it. I asked the guard to have someone search, but I was pointedly ignored, 'having not the authority'," she sneered.

Though he was also perturbed that the guard did not respond to Marta's authority as the Sun Spirit, something in her worried tone made him consider the possibility of Magnus' potential flight. He refused to acknowledge the panic it seemed to induce. "Very well," his jaw clenched. "We shall do something about this."

Sindre turned to his chambers, "Rolf, fetch my cloak and-" Rolf strode from his rooms carrying Sindre's cloak, sword belt, and boots. The servingman had a long suffering look, carefully devoid of judgement of the Prince's peculiar ideas. Sindre knew he found them both amusing and exasperating. "Good! Please inform the guard to have Marta's lady-in-waiting bring her things," he instructed. "And summon the Captain of Guard," he said firmly, pulling on brown leathers, worn from long use.

"Of course my lord," Rolf acquiesced, holding the cloak open for his master.

Sindre looked up to see Marta's astonished look. "I thought perhaps you might be convinced to send the guard but not-" she began, but Sindre saw the gratitude shining in her gaze that, finally, someone had taken her seriously. Marta nodded, her worried features firming into determination, "You're right, direct action is best."

Sindre smiled, "Yes, sometimes it is." He shrugged himself into his cloak, waving Rolf away to his instructions. "Come, we will wait at the guard house for our horses. Though, in this weather..."

"It would be far more expedient," Marta finished. She crossed the room to the door and flung it open. Sindre followed at her heels, with a sinking feeling in his gut that this would not end how either of them hoped.

.

A dark cloaked figure slowly approached the wild mount at the roadside. Riderless, the roan gelding's eyes rolled with every rumble of thunder, fear contesting with the ingrained training to stay with a fallen rider.

Cautious, Snorri snorted nervously and laid his ears back before he settled under the gentle black gloved hand that met his velvety nose.

The stranger led Magnus' horse, skin shivering with fright, towards the figure's own mount that stood obediently on the road, black as polished ebony. Both steeds nickered and sidestepped as the clouds suddenly opened and the deluge spattered the gravel road into puddles in moments.

The rider's low, melodic voice sang in a strange tongue, as they steadied both horses with experienced hands. The fine fur-lined cloak dragged in the mud as they knelt to examine Snorri's knees, "Now where is your rider, beast? Hmm?" they asked the frightened creature. Swollen and hot, Snorri's legs were skinned and bleeding and would not make another night-time dash for many long weeks. They fingered the royal sigils on the breast band and stood.

"A royal? Or his messenger?" they wondered aloud.

The rider turned to the wind-whipped trees, their blowing shapes blurred in the downpour. Pulling their cloak close about them, tall, black boots skidded down the small embankment into the pitch dark treeline.

.

The doors to Marta's apartments flew open on well oiled hinges and Marta strode in, disgusted. The lamps had been damped and the fire crackled lazily in the grate. Floral accents seemed to grow in the corners of the room, leaves and ivy and gilded songbirds peeped in the carved foliage of the cornices. Thick rugs in ochre red and brown, earthy tones and colours in the hunting scenes of the tapestries suggested one was walking into an enchanted wood.

Though he had been in many of the guest apartments before, he had not taken the time to visit Marta's chambers personally. Less ornate than the western suites, the east wing had wonderful views of the hills and river basin - usually reserved for lesser nobles, it had not stopped Marta from requesting the wing for herself and her family.

Sindre smiled to himself, feeling he had just learned a little more about Marta's tastes. For all the airs she put on about fine things, he did note most of it was far more practical than that of popular fashion and her rooms were only further evidence. He wondered if the embroidery on his shirt was her work - she hadn't answered when he had asked earlier. He decided it had to be, for it was too different to the usual patterns he saw on the hoops of the ladies at court.

He turned to shut the door, noting with some concern that Marta winced to remove her cloak before her lady-in-waiting scurried, still in her shift no less, to aid her mistress. With dark brown hair, growing gray at the temples and a motherly demeanor, Heide was diligent to her duties nonetheless.

"Thank you, Heide. Please, go back to bed, it's far too early to think of me," Marta peeled the gloves from her hands.

"But my Lady Sun! It is my pleasure to-" she stopped as Marta shook her head.

"Please Heide, it's the wee hours and my patience for propriety is at an end. Morning will come too swiftly. Go," she said firmly, even as her voice rasped from the evening's shouting over the storm. Marta's smile was tired, ' _And sad,'_ Sindre thought. Heide merely looked over her charge and nodded slowly. Sindre knew Heide was a dutiful woman who did not lightly abandon propriety.

"Yes, Milady. I will wake you if news should arrive of Lord Magnus' return," Heide said before she curtsied to them both, and retreated to her adjacent rooms. Sindre acknowledged her courtesies, then he too flung down his gloves on a table.

Sindre placed his cloak on one of the pegs near the fireplace, tendrils of steam beginning to rise from the fine wool. He collected Marta's cloak from where she had let it drop and placed it beside his own. The night suddenly grew close in the glow from the hearth, "Are you alright, Marta?" he asked gently.

"No," she said bluntly. She sniffed once and knuckled her eyes. "My brother is missing and I, for a fact, know he is hurt and I am helpless to find him." Marta said succinctly. Sindre raised his brow in askance. She had been growing more and more withdrawn since they had left. Disheartened, he might have said.

Sindre crossed the the room to stand before her, rubbing her shoulders as she crossed her arms.

Marta sighed, "It's hard to explain."

"Try. For me. Please?" he asked. His voice was pitched low, warm like the coals in the hearth. When Marta stared at him, he wondered what it was she saw in his face, for he found he didn't wish to be seen as callous or taciturn by her.

Marta hesitated, but nodded. "Alright. Let me change first, I despise being damp," she said. Sindre snorted. They were soaked to the skin with their hair plastered to their scalps. Marta strode through the parlour to the bedchamber, "Come, help me with my buttons?" she requested.

Sindre smiled, "That 'ole ploy, eh?" he teased. He grinned at the exasperated snort of derision as he crossed the threshold of her bedchamber.

"I am far too tired to play hooky with you now," she said honestly. She untied the laces of her corset, and let it fall.

"I know. You scared me earlier tonight, when we were crossing Needle Street. You nearly fell from your horse." Sindre said, his fingers far more comfortable now with the small buttons than they had been earlier that day.

"Yes, I apologize for that," she said slipping from her dress. She crossed the room to one of three tall armoires and opened the gilded latch to reveal shelves lined with fluffy white cotton towels and linens. She grabbed two and then opened the second mahogany wardrobe and pulled a white linen shift from within.

Sindre undid his waistcoat, and unlaced his shirt. He wondered that Marta did not seemed more perturbed at his presence. He would have been ejected with shrieks and an army of ladies-in-waiting for the breach of propriety of even stepping into her rooms on any other occasion.

"What happened?" Sindre asked again.

Marta slipped into a shift and towelled her hair tossed the other to her fiancee. "What do you know of twins, Sindre? I know there are plenty of wives tales about twins being good or bad luck depending on your folk tales, and dozens more about how to conceive them. But have you ever met twins before Magnus and I?"

"Once a noble family who visited whose heirs were twins. I was quite young when I met them. Identical twins," he closed his eyes and seemed to search his memory, "Ladies Saoirse and Bronagh from the Iriden Islands to the south. They seemed far more attached to one another than you and Magnus. They went everywhere together and finished each other's-"

"-sentences. Yes. Magnus and I still do that on occasion," she smiled. "But no, the bond I share with Magnus as my twin is difficult to explain. As kids we would often get into the same sort of trouble - but when the other was in danger or hurt the other twin felt it too. Physically sometimes. When we were ten I threw a beehive at him because he had made me so angry, I don't remember the reason now, but when we both managed to flee, he had nearly 50 stings. I however got away with less than 5 for my trouble - and a raised welt for everyone of his in all the same places."

Sindre looked skeptical. "Truly?" he finished with the towel and laid it over a chair.

"Mother was quite perturbed, though she didn't have much sympathy for me at the time. I did throw _bees_ at someone," Marta grinned cheekily.

"But how does that even work?" Sindre tried to reconcile the concept. He sat on the chair and hauled off his sodden boots. He wrinkled his lip at the equally drenched stocking and sighed quietly. He hated having wet toes.

Marta nodded, "Hmm, I honestly have no idea. When I broke my leg once, he said that his left leg ached all the time I was healing. I mean, he and I have even shared dreams, or nightmares sometimes. Though he gets them more than I, it seems. It's an odd thing, but I have come to rely on it. Even miles apart at times, we've known how, in general terms and emotions, the other is doing."

"I had no idea such a thing existed outside of stories." Sindre said. "So what about tonight?" he pulled off his socks, and gave up any sort of pretense of tidiness and let them fall with his boots. He turned on the bed to see Marta standing with her arms hugging herself at the inner fireplace, golden hair tangled and beautiful, with her eyes shining like burnished copper in the small flames. He rose from the bed and padded across the carpet to where she stood.

"It was like being cracked with a horsewhip about the size of a ship's mooring line, that nearly startled me right off Odin. It's hard to tell, for I ache all over now, but I feel as though he's been tossed head over hindquarters down a mountain slope. He's gone and concussed himself too, maybe. It may just be an exhausting day, but my head is ringing like an anvil being beaten on by a blacksmith." She rubbed her temples.

Marta curled her arms about his waist and pressed her damp hair under his chin. "He's hurt Sindre, I can feel it. And I find myself thinking he's been caught in some plot, or kidnapped, or cracked over the head by a city street tough, or tossed from his horse and lying in a ditch... " she stopped herself and sighed, her breath unsteady.

Sindre arms wrapped around her and held her close. He breathed in the damp of rain and the subtle fading scent of her floral soap. "We'll find him. I have the entire garrison on alert, stationed at every gate or out riding the roads and searching. I know we checked many of the inns and taverns, but there are dozens more we didn't. If he's not returned by tomorrow evening, I'll send for the Spymaster to see if her contacts can find news of him. I will also send a rider to your homestead also first thing in the morning, just in case."

"I know we'll find him, I just hope he will be in one piece. I couldn't do this without him, being here and all this courtly drama." Sindre felt her smile against his chest. "Thank you," she mumbled as she squeezed him. Sindre felt there were more words she wished she could say to express all the things it encompassed, but could not quite find them. He too felt fuzzy headed with exhaustion.

"Come, let's put you to bed, Marta Andersen," Sindre prompted.

"Tease," she poked him in the chest. The look she gave him, however, was thoughtful rather than coy, and he wondered what that meant. She was so confusing sometimes, but he felt that tonight had brought them closer. "I get window side," she said and allowed herself to be propelled toward the giant bed.

Sindre didn't know when he had decided to stay, but he nodded as if they had discussed it explicitly. He pulled off his sword belt and hung his baldric on the bedpost. His shirt and trousers were added to the pile of sodden clothing on the rugs as Marta seemed to stretch and curl up like a cat into the sheets. Her yawn drew one to his lips, and the weight of his tiredness crashed into him like an ocean wave. Sindre climbed into bed in his smallclothes and curled around Marta, who welcomed him with a gentle murmur. The knot in his belly of fear and anxiety seemed to lessen as he and Marta wiggled into a comfortable position.

"Will you be alright?" Sindre whispered.

Marta made a sound, "Mmm, much better already."

Sindre agreed. He could almost, _almost,_ forget he was ready to turn over every rock in the kingdom for a man he hardly knew.

.

Sindre woke with a start.

Someone was leaning over him, reaching, "Your Grace, My Lady, awake! A runner has brought word of Young Lord Andersen!" he was jostled gently by caring hands. He blinked blearily and did not seem to absorb the words. The lamps had been lit and the room glowed with a warm, golden light.

He felt the bed shift as Marta leapt from the sheets, "Where is he?" Marta tied her sleep tousled locks into a knot on at the nape of her neck, and swayed. She steadied herself on the bedpost.

"He's on his way back to the castle in the company of Lord Sjovard and a foreigner," Heide, now dressed for the day, carried dry garments for them both.

"Get my robes!" Marta ordered, interrupting Heide. "We'll meet them," she picked up and threw aside her damp boots for the slippers Heide held.

Sindre barely heard any of the conversation, save that Magnus was returning. He closed his eyes again, suddenly relieved. He imagined Marta felt the same. The warmth of Marta's bed cocooned him and he was reluctant to leave it. He sighed.

"I'm coming," he said, "What is the hour?" He threw back the duvet and rose. Goose pimples broke across his ivory skin as he reached for clean stockings.

"Nearly dawn, Your Grace," Heide supplied, as she handed over Marta's robe. "A shirt, my Lord," Heide made no comment on the Prince's state of undress, but Sindre could not help but note her pursed lips. Always one for propriety Heide, Sindre thought.

Sindre threw the dark blue shirt over his head and almost jumped into the woolen grey trousers that were offered. "Hey Marta, wait!" he dashed after Marta, still trying to slip on his boots. Marta had forgone getting properly dressed and had flung open the bedroom doors to the parlour.

Sindre caught her up at the parlour door, where she had stopped to steady herself on the doorframe. "Marta?" he touched her shoulder gently. "Please, slow down. We don't need two Andersens getting ahead of themselves," Sindre commented gently.

"We need to find more information about what's going on," she said and shot him a look of what Sindre could only call contempt. She shook her head and winced. "Where would the runner be received?" Marta rubbed her temples. When she caught his gaze again, Sindre saw the apology reflected like golden candlelight, and he nodded. They strode down the corridors briskly, her slippers barely making a sound.

"Likely the Gatehouse, or the Captain's Office if it was a soldier that carried news. If was sent via The Bluecoat Messenger Corps, their Main guildhall is located on the northern palace grounds." Sindre frowned. Marta was not herself, and it showed. Was she ill? Or was this just part of that connection she said she shared with Magnus? Questions tumbled in his mind, like leaves in the courtyard on a blustery day.

They had only gotten to the main corridor when they were swept aside abruptly by a squad of guardsmen galloping past them, armour and sword belts jingling. Sindre steadied Marta against his chest as they passed. Sindre frowned. That was odd.

Shouts and the ring of steel being drawn echoed through the hall.

"What the-?" Sindre brows furrowed. Steel? His sword belt hung on Marta's bedpost and he berated his thoughtlessness. Never had weapons been drawn in earnest within the palace in his memory!

"Magnus!" Marta sped down the hall after the guardsmen.

"Wait Marta! Hang on!" Sindre exclaimed, but she twisted from his grip.

He dashed after her and into the Grand Vestibule and skid to a halt at the top of the staircase.

As he stopped, the massive main doors cracked as they were burst open by the hooves of a giant, screaming, warhorse. The rider astride the beast had a complexion akin to an appleseed, a closely cropped black beard, and flashing brilliant green eyes that were as hard as gemstones. Soaked to the skin, it did not seem to deter from his commanding presence. "Stand down, please! I bring a member of the court! He is in need of a doctor immediately!" he boomed in a voice not unlike the thunder that had finally ceased.

The horse and rider clattered into the vestibule, steel shod hooves skittering on the smooth marble. Guardsmen scrambled to point spears at the intruder, a ring of steel points, nearly a span long, closing around stallion. The horse snorted loudly and seemed prepared to kick or bite at his master's command. Using only his knees, the rider whirled his steed round, sending half a dozen men tumbling, whilst never endangering the man cradled against his chest.

Sindre saw the shock of blonde hair stained red, one side of Magnus' face a sheet of dried blood and mud. His shirt, mostly hidden by the velvet green and sable cloak, was also not the brilliant blue Sindre remembered from yesterday morning in the garden. His heart seemed to lurch sideways.

Lamps sprang to life as lights were lit by frantic servants, eager to be away from the furious glares and frenzied shouts of the Head of Household, who was tearing the few threads of hair from his head at the absolute chaos that had erupted.

Marta charged into the pandemonium with golden eyes alight with passion and panic, shouting commands only to be drowned in the cacophony. She was sent reeling by one of the guards trying to rise from his own fall, and whose carelessness with his spear nearly concussed Sindre's fiancee.

"Please, call for a physician! The lord is badly hurt," the stranger again called, the foreign accent thick on his tongue, his mount stepping in circles, snorting at the steel bared.

"Dismount and release your passenger! Do not make any sudden movements!"

"-get those lamps dealt with or so help me!-"

"-Someone fetch the physician?!"

"-Get that horse under control!"

"Where is the Lord Sjovard?!"

The clatter of booted feet came down the corridors as a company of crossbowmen took positions on the stairs, brushing hastily past the Prince. Sindre's temper flared. This was unacceptable!

"WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?!" Sindre roared over the din. Silence reigned as the scene seemed to freeze. Only the echoing tap of the dancing horse's hooves, and the jangle of harness, rang in the entryway.

From the top of the grand staircase, Sindre's eyes blazed with command. Immediately, servants made their courtesies and bowed low. The guards, though they did not retreat from their duties, stood a little straighter, and gripped their spear hafts tighter. Sindre swept down the staircase with regal poise and picked up Marta from where she had tumbled.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, thank you. But Magnus-" she started, but Sindre interrupted.

"-will be aided forthwith," Sindre promised, and his tone would not suffer argument. Marta, to Sindre's great relief, for she was very strong minded, obeyed. She twisted her hands in her robe, glaring at the tall, dark, and handsome stranger as if to stick a spear in him herself.

Sindre turned to address the room, "You, rider. Dismount, please," and Sindre was pleased to see he did as asked. Though it was also a surprise to him that the gentlemen, for his finely embroidered mahogany coat and commanding presence proclaimed him as such, also hoisted Magnus down himself to carry forward.

The ring of spears eased, but they did not seem to perturb the stranger in the least. His horse nipped at the guard who came to take his bridle, but settled at a short word from his master in a tongue that brought frowns to many of the grizzled soldier's faces.

"My Prince-" Lord Benjamin Sjovard wheezed as he came up the palace steps and stumbled into the Grand Vestibule. The portly nobleman seemed to have run up the marble stairs. "I sent a messenger ahead, to- but- I-" he tried breathlessly as he leaned on his knees. He blew out his moustaches. He straightened and tugged at his damp red coat, wrinkled and seemingly slept in.

"My Prince, I apologize for the commotion. I sent this young lord ahead as fast as I could, for you see I was up at the Seven Leaves Tavern - you can always find a good dice game there - and then-" he broke off, silenced with a disdainful look from Sindre.

"Please, Lord Sjovard, the explanations of what has occurred will wait," Sindre said, trying to absorb the peculiar style of coat and dress of the foreigner. Even dismounted Sindre felt like he was standing in the shadow of a mountain. His bearded face was composed, confident even, though he seemed more concerned with the man in his arms than the 20 men threatening him with glares like the steel they leveled.

Marta looped her arm in Sindre's and he felt her lean on him. He caught her hand and squeezed. He glanced down and saw she had composed herself. Her smooth features hid the tempest of worry he was certain she was experiencing, and he suddenly felt a rush of pride in her abilities at court.

"Master Drummond!" Sindre barked.

The Head of Household bustled over, his black and gold livery not quite its usual crispness. "Yes, your Grace?" he bowed, his white gloved hands pressed together to keep them from trembling.

"Please summon the Lady Holly promptly and see young Lord Andersen to his rooms. It will require a stretcher. You will also have the Lord and Lady Andersen notified of the nature of their son's return," Sindre instructed. Master Drummond bowed low and backed away with murmurs of acquiescence.

"No need to summon me, You Grace, I am here," Lady Holly said as she swept into the entryway in the company of the Captain of the Guard. She pushed back her hood, slipping her dark leather gloves from her hands and handing them to a bobbing servant.

Sindre wondered at where she had been to be out so early, but the court physician could be called upon by any of the nobles at their manors, should Lady Holly deem it appropriate to go. She strode immediately to Magnus in the arms of the giant gentleman, ignoring steel, and gently pressed deft fingers against his pallid skin, searching for his pulse. Magnus' eyes did not open, but danced beneath closed lids, restless.

The Captain bowed to the Prince and waited patiently to be addressed. Sindre saw he wore a small frown, and a hard look for the guards who would have been posted on the main doors. Sindre did not envy the tonguelashing he was sure they would receive.

"The Guardsmen will stand down. Captain, you will see they are reminded about our security protocols." Sindre ordered with a small gesture of emphasis.

"Of course, your Grace, it will be done." He turned to his men, who spears returned to their sides, crossbows lowered, and swords sheathed. The Captain nodded to two of the number and they flanked the foreigner to escort him to the place of the Prince's choosing. With salutes, the rest of the company began to exit and return to their posts.

The tension in the hall finally dissipated, only to be replace by a different kind of fervour. A stretcher borne by a pair of well muscled valets appeared and a flurry of activity commenced once more. Imperious directions were given by Lady Holly who, with the experience of a physician used to having her commands obeyed, had taken control of Magnus' situation.

The brown coated stranger, with surprising care, lowered Magnus' limp and bundled form onto the stretcher. Marta extracted herself from Sindre and rushed to her brother's side, hands reaching to worry at the wound at his temple, only to be kindly pushed aside by Lady Holly.

Magnus's eyes opened suddenly, and he rolled toward the edge of the stretcher nearest his sister and the Prince, to the dismay of those attending. He reached to Sindre and spoke, or whispered it more like for its breathy volume, and Sindre did not understand what he was saying, " _Argenti! Argentum luna, inuenit animam meam vos tandem-!_ " Magnus groaned, and his lips pulled back as the pain of his own movement returned him to oblivion. Sindre was frozen momentarily by the words and their unfamiliarity. It took a minute for it to register that Magnus was not speaking the common tongue.

The stranger gently arranged Magnus on the stretcher and he stood with his hands behind his back calmly accepting the commotion, still as a stone in winter. He looked at Sindre thoughtfully, and Marta, who was no longer glaring, too engrossed in her attentions to her brother and Lady Holly.

"Your Grace, Young Lord Andersen must be attended immediately. By your leave," Lady Holly said distractedly, bobbing a quick curtsy. She did not wait for his reply, but instead gave further instructions. "You boys," she pointed and addressed the valets who had brought the stretcher and her brown leather medical bag, "You'll carry him to the medical ward, quickly now, please. This way," she strode briskly down one of the adjacent corridors with a small train of servants that had materialized from the palace machinery.

Sindre watched Marta trot beside the stretcher, pushing the mud-covered hair plastered from her brother's forehead. Sindre bit his lip, his fingers curling into fists as watched Magnus' pale face and Marta's golden head disappear.

Quiet descended on the hall. Shining lamps drew the white and gold of the vestibule to life. One of the guardsmen stood with the foreigner's horse, calmer now, ears flicking curiously. Leather boots echoed on the marble floor as the stranger approached the Prince and bowed, his right hand pressed to his breast in salute. He glanced at the soldiers accompanying him and nodded to himself. With a smooth movement, he removed the hunting knife, nearly a short sword, from the bright azure sash 'round his waist and presented it to the guard, hilt first.

"Your Grace, my name is Alric Amharahad of Darcia, Lord of the Northern Steppe. I apologize for my actions and I will of course accept the consequences of them and pay recompense for any damages," he said as he removed his black gloves and folded them into his belt. His voice rolled like thunder over the plains, carefully enunciated for his Darcian accent. The guards stiffened, hands tightening on their sword hilts.

Sindre raised his hand, suspending any further apologies, "Please, Lord Amharahad we will discuss this privately. You are to be thanked for returning the brother of the Sun Spirit as quickly as you did. You will be escorted to Glass receiving rooms and offered the Crown's hospitality, of course. Please, be welcome. Shall we summon your retinue?" Sindre blessed whatever powers that be that he did not stumble over the Darcian name.

"Thank you, Sindre Sigurdson of Mithras, Lord of Silver," his voice was respectful, though Sindre wondered at the formal and yet familiar way he was addressed. Alric continued, "My company awaits me at the Seven Leaves Tavern, if they can be summoned, I would be grateful."

"Of course," Sindre nodded to a nearby soldier, who bowed and exited with his task. "We will speak further once you have had a chance to at least find a dry shirt," Sindre said with a charming smile. Alric lips quirked also, and his hands folded comfortably in the small of his back.

"My thanks," he said, and nodded respectfully.

Master Drummond appeared at Sindre's shoulder and bowed to their new… guest. Sindre could have laughed at the wrinkle in the man's brow. Competent and efficient for the tasks of the Court, but useless in a crisis.

"Please, my lord, this way," he said, making a gesture to follow. A servant carried the gentleman's saddlebags, giving a wide berth to the tall, black stallion who was finally being led from the hall.

Sindre watched the Darcian ambassador tailor his stride to the plump Master Drummond.

A lordling from a foreign land carrying an injured man through the night? How odd. Sindre frowned as the echoing silence of the Grand Vestibule returned. He strode down the west corridor, chewing his lip. He had to inform the staff, and his parents about the guests - and, more importantly, he needed to meet with the Lord and Lady Andersen.

Their daughter was to become a princess.


End file.
